


Listen as My Watch Unwinds

by zenelly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Blind!John, Happy Ending, Humanstuck, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wrap your free arm around yourself tightly, your existence narrowed down to the point of contact between your ear and your phone. He's been missing for a month, and you're just now finding out why. And that does it, you're moving up with him to take care of him, because you can't let him be so far away from you anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Road

EB: ha, yeah. i'm going to go now, though. dad's saying something about shopping again, ugh.  
TG: if he gets anymore cooking supplies send the cakes my way im fucking hungry  
TG: bro cant always be trusted to restock the fridge with anything other than shitty swords and smuppet ass  
TG: im being serious man if he makes cake send it to me  
EB: man, I hope he doesn't. too many baked goods. too little time.  
TG: you can do it  
EB: alright, alright, dave, I'll talk to you later.  
TG: see you egbert  
  
\- - ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 16:57 - -

That is the last thing you heard from John.

Later was apparently a month ago, and by this point, you're about to climb the walls of your small apartment in frustration. A month of radio silence from John isn't something that occurs naturally, John doesn't shut up and he definitely doesn't leave you alone. (And no, you haven't been messaging him almost every day since then, shut up, it isn't you who initiates all of the conversations between you two.)

Oh man, you're going to ignore your own internal narration right there. Shit's just embarrassing. You just… You wonder what happened to the kid. You're worried, if you really want to get technical about it, which you don't. It's just not like him.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, biting it bloody as you stare at your screen. You wouldn't admit to watching Pesterchum for John to show up, but that's what you're doing. Hell, that's _all_ you're doing. You're not even working on a new Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comic. You flex your fingers on the keyboard, wondering if maybe this time he'll answer when you pester him.

The console dings.

You'll deny it to your dying day, but you start at the sudden noise, check the name with your heart pounding high in your throat and-

-It's Rose.

You are _almost_ disappointed. Not enough to not answer, but still. It stings a little.

\- - tentacleTherapist[TT] began pesteringturntechGodhead [TG] at 19:12 - -  


TT: Dave, I see that you are online yet again. Thankfully not during school hours for once.  
TG: not now lalonde I really dont need this  
TG: wait no maybe you can...  
TG: rose i need a favor  
TT: Well, this is unusual. Normally, your attempts at coercion tend to involve a greater amount of subtlety.  
TG: not right now okay  
TG: johns not answering anything ive been doing i dont know whats wrong  
TT: ...Yes, his silence has me worried as well. It is unlike him to not answer when he is pestered for this length of time.  
TT: What is your plan of action?  
TG: i was hoping youd have one to be honest...  
TG: wait  
TG: do you know what his phone number is  
TT: ...Not yet. But I shall in a few minutes.  
TG: alright

You tap your fingers anxiously on the keyboard, your toes curling and flexing inside your sneakers. What if something has happened to him? What if he's… You take a deep breath. No, Egbert can't be dead. There's no way he's just... gone. You'd know, right?

The thought catches up with you a second later, and you barely resist the urge to slam your forehead into your palm. (You do roll your eyes at yourself anyway, despite the painful twist the idea drags through you.) God, what the hell idea was that? That was the dumbest thing. He lives in Washington, you live in Texas, there isn't some kind of freaky soul-bond between the two of you. You wouldn't _feel_ it or some shit like that.

Nothing from Rose yet. Leaning back in the chair, you stare intently up at the ceiling through your shades, focusing on the minute details of the textured surface tinted dark.

What are you going to do if it is something serious? You're in Texas. You're a three, possibly four day drive from him -not like you could make the drive on your own anyway. Are you just going to have to sit here and wait? You decide as you're biting your nails that it depends on what the issue is, and what the hell is taking Rose so long?

Almost in answer to your thoughts, your Pesterchum dings an alert.

TT: You are in luck, Strider. Through means I am not going to elaborate on here, I have obtained his phone number.  
TG: id ask but right now i dont actually care  
TG: give me the number

You scramble for your phone while Rose is writing; you can't disregard the tremors in your hands, not when you have to pick your phone up at least three times before you have a steady hold on it.

"Shit," you murmur shakily, dragging a hand through your hair. "Shit shit shit."

TT: Calm down, David. I can feel your panic all the way over here.  
TG: fuck you lalonde just give me the damn number already  
TG: dude seriously wtf you waiting for  
TG: lalonde  
TG: hey pay attention fucknuts come on  
TG: no seriously you flighty broad what the fuck are you doing thats taking so long  
TG: rose  
TG: rose seriously  
TT: My apologies. Here it is.  


You add the number to your contacts, go to dial it...

And nothing. God, your hands are shaking way too fucking much for this. He's your friend, isn't he? Haven't heard from him in a month (which is still fucking weird) but you and John are tight. Very tight. Tight enough for it to not be all that strange for you, a person he's never actually met before, to call him up to make sure he's okay, right?

Right, totally. Not strange at all.

You take a deep breath.

_Calling: JOHN EGBERT (dudebro4lyfe or some shit like that)_

…

…

…

Fuck how many times is this damn thing going to ring before John picks up? You resist the urge to start pacing because you're cool, damn it, pacing isn't allowed.

(You pace anyway. No one's around to see you lose even the slightest bit of your cool, except maybe Li'l Cal, but he's a bro, he understands.)

It goes to voicemail.

That doesn't make you feel any better, the twisting pounding of your heart making you dizzy with nerves. You shake your head, press the call button again because damn it, he is _not_ going to evade you for any longer than he already has. _Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri—click._ Your heart leaps into your throat, strangling you.

"Hello?" Someone says hesitantly. You swallow heavily, once, twice before you are able to speak to him, because damn it you know without a doubt that this is John.

"Hey, Egbert."

There's a pause. Then, shakily, disbelievingly, John asks, "…Dave? Is… Is that you?"

You laugh, a corner of your mouth quirking up. "Yeah dude, who the hell else would it be? You got some other ladies on the side? I thought we agreed that we were a solo thing."

A weird noise, something like the mix of a laugh and a relieved sob, comes from down the line. "You… You have no idea how happy I am to hear from you. How the hell did you get this number?"

"Shenanigans," you snort, like it's obvious.

"Of course. Can't be anything else like the marvelous Dave Strider getting worried about little ol' John Egbert, right?"

"Yeah, speaking of which, dude, where the fuck have you been? Pesterchum is so silent without your raging manboner for Nic Cage's face."

A beat of silence. For an instant you wonder if you've gone too far, but then you hear John clear his throat awkwardly. "Well, about that. Ahahah... Um. Well. This... aaaugh, this is going to sound so weird, Dave, I swear."

You snort. "Let me be the judge of that. Now what's up? Why haven't I seen you online for an entire month?"

A soft coo and a muttered "I knew you cared" comes from the other end and you roll your eyes at John. But then he goes silent again, coughs, swallows, and Christ, his breath is shaking; you can hear it through the phone. "...Dave, I can't get online because I can't see."

"What, like you broke your glasses? Come on dude, isn't your dad wallowing in the monies? A month is a little long to-"

"No, no ..." And he swallows again. Only this time, you think you hear him sniffle. Is he... crying? Man, that thought is more terrifying than it should be. "No, Dave, I can't see _anything_.

"I went blind."

There is a terrible moment where you expect him to laugh and tell you that he is joking, oh man has he got you good, gullible as always huh Dave, but no, no no, there's only his breathing and yours and eventually it has to break; you have to say, "...really?"

It comes off harsh and disbelieving and you wince, but there's no taking it back now. John makes a noise again (shit he's sobbing, fuck damn it what are you supposed to do at times like this), voice watery as he replies, "Trust me, Dave, I wish I was pranking you too."

"... what the hell happened, man? Last time I checked, you could still see."

"A-Apparently we got into a car crash. Someone just..." and you clench the phone so tightly that you hear it creak in your hand as John takes a shaky breath on the other side of the phone, "Just... ran into us. When I woke up again, I couldn't see." He sniffs, makes a pathetic whimpering sound that was supposed to be a laugh. "Still can't, I guess. That was about a month ago. You were the last person I talked to before … this."

You tap your fingers against your leg. Shit, you should have called him before this. You are his _best bro_ for crying out loud. Forget the distance, the second two days passed, you should have been up there with him, ninja-ed all up into his hospital room.

"Cut that out, Dave."

"Cut what out, dude?" you ask dryly, the too-tight too-casual tone of your voice belying how tightly your hands are twisted into the rough denim of your jeans.

John snorts. "The worrying, you mother hen. I'm fine, okay? I've been out of the hospital for over three weeks now!"

You tap your toes, turn, avoid Li'l Cal's curious gaze. "How's your dad doing?"

"…Uh, well. He… The car…. He didn't…." John's voice, which had started to clear up, thickens and you can almost hear the idiot choking back more tears. You close your eyes in sympathy, your entire being aching to be over in Washington with him. You are useless to him here.

"…Sorry to hear it, bro."

He inhales shakily, whispers, "Yeah, yeah, I… I am too," and fuck his voice is so pitiful. You wrap your free arm around yourself tightly, your existence narrowed down to the point of contact between your ear and your phone.

"Lemme know if there's anything I can do, okay?"

"Of course."

Something occurs to you. "Wait wait, your Dad is… gone, and you are… where exactly?"

"At home," he answers, voice watery.

Your eyes narrow. "…Is anyone there with you?"

"…No?"

"What the fuck do you mean no? You're blind and alone in that house?"

"W-Well, not exactly?" John replies carefully. "I mean, my uncle checks in on me, and he's the one who footed the hospital bill, and he brings groceries by sometimes so I can eat? He takes care of me-"

Because leaving a blind guy alone in a house by himself when he's just lost his dad is _so_ considerate.

"-so I've been fine, really."

You sigh and narrow your eyes. "That's pretty fucking neglectful, dude. This guy seems sketchy as shit. He should be there _with_ you, you know, checking up on you and the like."

"… he's busy?" John offers weakly.

"Yeah don't even. Bro pays more attention than this dude does, and Bro's not even always here." There's a slight shuffling noise behind you, but hey, you figure that's probably Li'l Cal making himself more comfortable. "Do I… Is there anything I can do?"

John sighs. "I don't know. I… I'll let you know if I think of anything?"

You nod even though he can't see you (haa, oh man, that's not going to be cool to think anymore). "You'd better."

Silence reigns for a long few seconds, both of you just listening almost desperately to the other breathe. But eventually, John inhales shakily. "I gotta go, Dave, okay? I have to make my way back to the bedroom. I'll take the phone with me, so feel free to call later, alright?"

"Yeah, I will."

"Alright then." Another pause, and you lower the phone, thinking that he must have hung up, but no, the screen still says you are connected. You raise it up in time to hear him whisper, "I really wish you were here, Dave."

You swallow hard, the sudden lump in your throat making it hard to speak. "Same, Egbert."

"…"

"…"

"…Alright, I should go. I'll… I'll talk you later."

"Yeah. I'll call you later." The line goes dead and you slowly lower the phone from your ear.

Blind.

He hasn't been online because he's been blinded. And he's all alone (which is such bullshit, family protects family, Bro's taught him that much, John's uncle is shit) in a huge house that probably reeks of his now-deceased Dad, and absolutely _no one_ is looking out for him. What you wouldn't give to be in Washington right now. But you're not. You sigh heavily, the breath shuddering out from you, and open your eyes.

Bro is right in front of you.

You startle backwards, just barely restraining your shriek. You're almost certain that the flinch was the only thing that gave away your surprise. Seeing straight through your poker face, he chuckles, standing up straight. "What's up, little dude?" he asks.

Shrug. "Eh, you know, not much, just a friend in distress etcetera etcetera. Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about."

"We all know how much worry makes me wrinkle, and you do keep bitching about the smell of my anti-aging creams." Bro claps you on the shoulder before his expression and body language somehow sobers. "Now really, what's going on?"

There's a brief, insane moment where you debate not telling him, but it's brief and definitely insane. "I… John and his dad got in a car accident about a month ago."

"About the time I actually started seeing you around the apartment! I just thought you and your internet girlfriend had a fight or something."

"Dude, you know that I talk mostly to Egbert."

He snorts, and you mentally face-palm because fuck you walked right into whatever he's about to say. "Yeah, exactly what I said."

"Whatever. Point is, John's dad died in the accident, and John isn't able to see for some reason. And his shit family is just throwing money at him without paying attention to anything he actually fucking needs, and he's all alone in Washington and I've never hated being in the infernal furnace that is Texas more." You take a deep breath. You know that you've busted out some rhymes that have taken up more time than that, so why the hell are you so out of breath?

Bro's hand ruffles your hair. You fuss at it until it is back in its proper place, swallow hard. There is a long moment where Bro is just standing next to you, not doing anything (and hell, it's almost kind of nice, even if it is weirding you out a bit) but then he slaps you on the back. "Well, tough luck, kid. Looks like I can expect you around even less than usual."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, like you're one to talk. I don't know, Bro, it just… he shouldn't be alone." He really shouldn't. Egbert is a menace to himself on the best of days, and you can't stand the idea of him being alone and blind, because it's John, he probably can't navigate and he's just going to get hurt. Someone should be there for him. _You_ should be there for him.

You bite the inside of your lip as a crazy idea occurs to you.

"What is it, little dude? That's your thinking-of-serious-shit face."

Maybe, just maybe… "Bro, how difficult would it be for us to move up to Washington and … look after him?"

…

Holy shit, you just made Bro's eyes widen. You mentally mark this day down as one of the rare days where you have broken his nigh-on impenetrable poker face.

Wetting your lips (because he's silent, just watching you, and that means you have to back it up), you explain, "Egbert's helpless in a house that reminds him of his dead dad, his uncle is neglecting him, and he's like family to me. Come on, Bro. Family looks out for family. Above everything else."

He scoffs, crossing his arms. "Yeah, I'm sure he's juuust like _family_ to you." But he hasn't said no yet, you notice. He just looks like he's trying to make a decision. You're waiting on tenterhooks for a few minutes before he nods to himself and slaps you on the shoulder. "Alright, little dude, get ready for bed."

You wish you knew what that meant, but the rest of your attempts to talk to him either end up with Bro flash-stepping away or in strife with the two of you flinging assorted weaponry at each other. You suppose that's close enough to getting ready for bed and give up in disgust.

' _Well, I gave it a shot,'_ you think as you flip your covers up over your head, disgruntled.

Sleep does not come easily that night. Your mind is full of the thought of John, alone in the dark, and you toss and turn until finally, you slip over the edge of unconsciousness.

* * *

Bro's face right in yours is the first thing you see in the morning. Immediately, you grab your shades, growling out, "Alright what do you want, Bro?"

"What, no good morning? Shit man, I've taught you better than that."

You roll your eyes. "Good morning, you ass, now tell me what you want."

He sits back, crossing his arms. "Pay attention, little dude. What's different this morning?"

"Noth-"

It's about that point when you notice that your room is fucking bare. The bed is pretty much the only thing left untouched in the entire place.

"-ing?" You rub at your face and blame your sudden wakefulness for how slow you are at realizing what's going on. "…Bro, I don't get it."

Bro sighs, shakes his head. "Yeah, thought as much. Come on and get in the car, we're going to Washington."

Your heart pounds loud in your throat, and you stare wide-eyed at your bro. "…Really?"

"Your lady-friend needs us, doesn't he?" Bro barely waits for you to get out of your bed before he strips all the covers off, folding them swiftly. "You said it yourself. Family doesn't leave family hanging. We're the closest thing that he's got, considering that he really doesn't have anyone other than his dumbass uncle." He scoffs under his breath, and you're sure that he's rolling his eyes behind his shades - he has that particular twist to his mouth. "That guy needs to be schooled on proper parenting. Now, get in the car, little dude. It's going to be a long few days."

Throat tight, you nod. "Hey, Bro?" you offer once you're fairly certain that your voice won't crack.

He pauses, halfway out of the room already.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Three days later, you have seen more of Kansas and Wyoming and every other intervening state than you ever wanted to. Endless rolling hills of wheat and hills and mysteriously invisible sheep (seriously, for a state that is reputed to have so many sheep, you don't see a fucking one. At that point, you and Bro are so bored that you start speculating about the existence of dragons in Wyoming because there is no other fucking explanation for the lack of sheep) and you're so tired of hills and driving and scrunching your growing, awkward body into the backseat to sleep.

Bro pulls into a gas station near Seattle in the golden light of sunset, stretches as he fills up the tank again. Leaning back, you prop your feet up on the dash, flex your toes absently. Something taps at the window, and you absently open the door to talk to Bro.

"Do you even know exactly where he lives?" he asks, head tilted down enough that you can see the molten orange of his irises. "I kinda don't want to be kipping out in the back of the car again."

Huh, you can't believe you forgot about that. "Lemme ask Rose."

You pull out your phone as Bro hums an agreement and goes to finish up paying for gas.

\- - turntechGodhead[TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 18:48 - -

TG: lalonde  
TG: lalonde come on answer  
TG: come on surely wizard fanfiction isnt keeping you that occupied  
TG: unless it is  
TG: which really isnt something i wanted to think about especially since youre my cousin  
TG: rose seriously what the hell  
TG: cmon surely you can spare some time from your gay wizard porn and mom-hunting to give a dude an address  
TG: are you really that engrossed  
TG: i swear you are worse than a cat chasing an errant moth around the house you just cannot give up  
TT: Strider, what in the world are you doing?  
TG: what can't a guy want an address without being questioned anymore  
TT: Whose address are we talking about here?  
TG: johns  
TT: Then no, this is not going to slip by without questioning.  
TG: dude i am not up for another conversation about dicks okay  
TT: Interesting that you bring up phalluses without prior prompting. I barely have to think at all about the implications of that.  
TG: rose  
TT: Very well, let me consult my sources.

By this point, Bro has finished with gas and is tapping intricate beats on the steering wheel, but he sighs in relief and starts driving once you relay the address to him. "Fucking finally," he groans, rubbing one hand behind his shades. "Can't wait to sleep on a real couch."

You tilt your head in agreement and keep pestering Rose.

TT: Now, David, what in the world are you doing? The last I heard from you was three days ago when you asked for John's number.  
TT: And now you're asking for his house address? It all seems rather suspicious. And worrying.  
TT: David, where are you?   
TG: definitely not in washington thats for sure   
TT: ...   
TG: ...   
TT: I knew it. What's going on with John?   
TG: nothing i want to talk about right now  
TG: i barely even know myself okay ill let you know when i figure it out  
TG: right now i am about as lost as a wee baby lamb who fell off the side of a cliff into an endless labrynthine abyss  
TG: i am bleating for help but no one is coming in to save me  
TG: and it just keeps getting darker and colder and eventually i will die down here  
TG: lost and confused and totally alone  
TG: the only way i could be more confused is if i wasnt as awesome as i am   
TT: I see. Bro's with you, then.   
TG: dude of course  
TG: i still dont have that whole 'license' thing and he probably wouldnt have let me drive on my own  
TG: this drives been fucking murderous though  
TG: if i see another cornstalk anytime between now and the inevitable implosion of the world due to the combined shenanigans of this countrys opinionated asshats it will be too fucking soon  
TG: fucking corn  
TG: dont read into that   
TT: Too late, David my dear.

You let the corner of your mouth twitch up as the car shudders alarmingly to a stop. Bro only shrugs when you shoot him a questioning look.

"What, it's an old car. We're here, so go on and tell your girl that we made it while I unload the car."

"That stopped being funny when we were still up to our armpits in cornstalks," you grouse, but god, stretching your legs out feels so good that you almost forgive him. He waves a hand in your periphery, sauntering towards the trunk of the car. Taking a deep breath, you look towards the door.

The house is … larger than what you're used to living in. The slime-pogo that John's told you about so many times makes you smile to yourself –and you blithely (nervously) ignore the fact that you're stalling. When you start wondering what kind of tree is in the front yard, you give up and make your way to the front door, hands clenched carefully in your pockets.

(It seems like an interminably long distance. The front landing stretches on forever, taking more steps than it should to cross.)

It's just John.

It's just John.

It's just (hah, yes, because John-anything is _just_ John) your best friend. Your friend, your compatriot your… John.

You can be there for him. You have to be, because no one else is anymore, and he'd do it for you, you're sure. Taking a deep breath to steady the sudden _thud-thud_ of your heart, you knock on the door. The wait is interminable, but you eventually hear the soft thuds of someone walking, and by the sound of it, someone pretty unsteady on their feet. You shift your weight, slouch just that bit more, and-

-The door opens.

A dark-haired boy stands on the other side.

He's smaller than you expect; that's the first thing that strikes you. That and the fact that he's still wearing his glasses and he's staring sightlessly at something over your right shoulder. His hair is irreparably tousled, and his glasses are askew - and that confuses you for a second before you remember that the force of habit is strong and difficult to resist. One hand is fisted tightly, nervously, in the front pocket of his blue hoodie. (Your heart, currently racing, calms a little bit, because he's not seriously injured other than his blindness. You had been so worried that maybe he just hadn't mentioned anything else.)

"Hello?" he asks, confused, and you realize that you still haven't spoken yet, which is... probably freaking him out a little.

"Christ, Egbert, you that surprised about your best bro being here?" you joke, throat tight.

The incredulous expression on his face makes your eyes prick and you're stupidly grateful that Bro is getting shit from the car right now because otherwise, you'd never hear the end of it. "...Dave?" he whispers.

"Well duh. Unless you have other best bros that you've failed to mention. Shit man, now I feel like a re-gifted package from someone else that you accepted to be nice but never intended to pull back out of the closet. Way to go, Egbert, way to make a bro feel apprecia-huurk!"

John throws himself at you, a little too far to the right, ruining the smooth flow of your words. He is small and shaking and in your arms, and you pet his head softly, holding him back just as tightly as he's holding on to you.

"Why are you here?" he asks, voice muffled by your chest.

You're about to answer, but you're interrupted by the rap of knuckles against the back of your head. "Family doesn't desert family," Bro answers him, patting John's shoulder, making the dark-haired boy look up, startled and wide-eyed. "We're about the next best thing, so suck it up and deal."

"W-was that-?" John asks as Bro flash-steps past him. There's a loud crash as he drops all the shit he was holding and John winces, half-turning to hear him better. "Are- Is he okay?"

You look past him, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah, he's fine. Just setting everything up in typical Strider fashion."

"Loud and obnoxious?"

"More like suave as shit and you know it."

John's mouth twitches into a smile that starts small and just gets larger. "Sure, let's go with that." He hasn't moved outside the circle of your arms -not like you're about to bring it up because jesus shit, it is so good to see him and know that he's alright; his fingers are curled into the hem of your shirt. "Suave. I c-can't-."

"Why are there buckets of water all around this place?" Bro yells and John's smile turns embarrassed.

"Hehe, well, I didn't want anyone sneaking up on me, and I couldn't exactly put them up on top of doors? So putting them everywhere sorta made sense, I guess."

Bro shrugs, picks them up and moves them. "Not gonna need them anymore, but wise thinking. C'mon, little dude, help me turn this place into an appropriate Strider abode."

You side-eye John for a second before grabbing him by the elbow and tugging him in the direction of the stairs. "Sit down while we work, okay?"

Reluctantly, he lets go of your shirt and fumbles around until he sits heavily on the bottom step, legs curled up to his chest. You barely resist the urge to pet his head as he cocks his head towards the living room, listening to the mess your brother is probably making. Sighing, you slouch off to help him.

In a whirlwind of a few hours, minus a break for pizza, you and Bro are moved in. Bro has set up his typical nest around the couch. You're helping John into bed, taking off his glasses, checking to make sure that his shirt is on the right way, giving in and stroking his hair. With a relieved sigh, John sinks into the bed, locks of dark hair spilling messily against his pillow. Hesitantly, he pats the side of the bed as you turn off his lamp (you don't bother telling him that he's a few inches off). You sit, still touching him on his shoulder so he knows where you are.

"I… I didn't think you'd show up." His hands twist in the bedsheets, and he smiles blindly up at you. "I just… thank you."

Your throat is thick with things you want to say – _you're welcome, of course I came for you, what the hell else was I supposed to do-_ but you just hum slightly, nod. The backs of your fingers brush down his cheek, making his eyes close, and you think just maybe, maybe he's content. "Anytime," you finally utter. And then you stand, suddenly uncomfortable. "Alright, sleep. We've been up too long already."

Hurrying to the door, you try to escape before the words in you just billow out in ways you don't want them to. You're stopped by John's voice, soft and lost.

"I'm glad you're here, Dave."

You take a deep breath and smile at him in the darkness of the room, hand fisted tightly around the door frame. He can't see and you can't see, and this is almost like even footing or as close as you're going to get. "Yeah," you sigh, breath-soft. "Me too."

"G'night, Strider."

"…Night, Egbert."

The door swings shut behind you. You clench your shaking hands – _he's okay, he's fine, not dead, not hurt, calm down already-_ and let out a heavy breath.

"Me too."


	2. Fast-Sinking Anchor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, in case you haven't guessed yet, I am actually... not super speedy with the chapter-making as a lot of Homestuck authors are (which really fucking amazes me, how the hell do you people write so fast, it's a mystery), so I apologize for that, and here's a new chapter! Tada! Have Dave and John. With an addition of Bro bein' Bro.

You startle awake in the early morning light, and for a disorienting second, you can't tell where you are or why you woke up. Then you hear a high, muffled whine of pain coming from the stairs. _Shit, John, shit shit shi-_ but Bro's already there before you can struggle out of your cocoon of blankets; you stumble halfway up the stairs, staring as John waves Bro off, laughing and wincing. He slowly picks himself off the carpet, fumbling for the railing awkwardly as he rambles.

"No, no, it's alright. I'm okay, I promise. I'm fine, just haha, misjudged a step there, see I'm fine! Look, upright and everything!" He almost spreads his arms to make his point, but he wavers and clings to the railing again. "Just not, uh, completely steady, it seems. Yet. You can let me go now."

Bro slowly lets his shoulder go, watching him intently. John tests his weight on one foot and winces, but he stands straight anyway. Seemingly satisfied, Bro shrugs and flash-steps away.

You hope he's making breakfast. Your panicked awakening made you fucking hungry. You wait a few steps below John, watching him hiss as he steps down, and you sigh. He blinks at the noise, cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing.

"Oh, Dave, are you … here too? Please tell me you're here and that I'm not talking to thin air."

"Yeah, two steps below you. Don't worry, I'll move when you start getting too close."

"No, no, just stay there. I'll come down to you. I might need you for support." You hold still as he reaches for you, his fingers hesitantly curling in your shirt again. The twist in your stomach as he smiles is foreign and new and really fucking annoying actually, because you need to focus on getting downstairs so you can see what the cooking situation is. That's the important bit.

…What, it _is_.

John feels around to your right, frowning when he gets only empty air. "…I thought Bro was here?"

"Nah, he fucked off downstairs. I'm hoping for breakfast, but eh, likelihood of that is small and decreasing by the second." You slide your hand up his arm until you're holding on to his shoulder. "C'mon, we should make sure he doesn't set anything on fire."

He winces, but follows your urging and leans on you as you make your way downstairs. "Please tell me that he's not actually going to set things on fire."

"Dude, I don't even know if he's cooking. Man just disappeared."

"…oh. That's… normal, right?"

You shrug, concentrating way harder than you need to on the steps below you instead of his soft warmth next to you. "Yeah. You get used to it."

"Don't lie to the kid, little dude." And both you and John jolt hard, John almost slipping down the stairs again. He ends up clinging to you (and shit, you can feel how fast his heart is racing, like a hummingbird in his chest) and waving one arm around until he manages to smack Bro in the shoulder.

John scowls from where his cheek is pressed into your shoulder and smacks Bro again. "God damn it, don't do that! You ass, I'm going to get you back for scaring me like that."

Bro shrugs, smirking. "Yeah, whatever. Point is, you can never predict a Strider's comings and goings."

"Dude, shut up and tell me that you're making food," you chime in.

The smoke alarm takes that moment to go off.

"…Well, I _was_. That noise doesn't mean anything though, right?" Bro sniffs and scratches at his cheek in consideration. "Char brings out the flavor."

John whacks Bro for a third time. " _Go turn it off_!"

Bro looks like he's about to hesitate, but then he sees how you are holding John through his flinching at every beep, how his knuckles are whitened from how tightly he's clinging to you. It's enough that Bro goes to turn everything off in the kitchen (revealing the fiery black mess that remains in the skillet he was using) and you all just end up sort of sitting around the kitchen, staring blankly at the messy countertops.

"… Pizza?" Bro offers.

You and John nod weakly. John gingerly moves out from his position tucked against your side that he's stayed in since you got off the stairs; you silently mourn the loss of his heat against your skin. "It's too early for this," he groans, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and you notice for the first time that he didn't bother putting his glasses on today.

You nudge him with your shoulder. He tilts his head towards you, expression curious and you just shrug. "Sorry for the hassle."

He laughs. "You're a bunch of Striders. Hassle is the least that I expect."

"True enough. We just can't be tamed."

"Apparently, you can't cook either. Unless you want everything microwaved, ordered, raw or burnt."

You snort as Bro paces by with his computer balanced precariously on his wrist. He's typing or something, probably ordering the pizza that he offered earlier, but you're a bit busy watching John's face through your shades. You notice how he twitches towards every sound like a caged animal, nervous and waiting; you notice the dark smudges under his eyes; you wonder how long it's been since he's really relaxed.

You make plenty of noise as you reach for his shoulder, patting it. "Don't worry, dude. We'll get it cleaned up, promise."

He shakes his head, a tired smile crossing his lips. "I'm sure. From now on, though, _I'm_ cooking, got that?"

"Whatever you say, man. I dunno what with, though. Place is kinda empty. Ain't even filled up with swords."

"…did you really just say "Ain't"?"

"Shut the fuck up, man, I'm from Texas."

He laughs, delighted. "Now I just have to wait for you to say "y'all" and my life will be complete."

"It's a totally valid contraction."

The two of you argue and heckle each other until pizza shows up, when you continue with your mouths full. Bro's on his computer the entire time, poker face firmly in place, interjecting only occasionally. When the meal ends, Egbert scoots his chair back cautiously, waves his hand until he grabs the counter, stands.

"Alright, we need to go shopping," he announces, staring blankly around the kitchen, face turned away from you. "We can't eat pizza for every meal, and Dave told me we're sorta… out of food. Because I haven't gotten to go shopping yet, y'know, blind as shit and all, but! We're going to do that now!"

Bro looks up from his computer. " _Why_ can't we eat pizza all the time?" he asks, and John turns his head until he's looking a bit more in the right direction. "It's got a bunch of food groups on it. Y'got your vegetables, your meat, your-"

"Please, just stop." John makes a disgusted face.

You sigh, tap your fingers on the table. "That's why, Bro. It's his house, let's go ahead and do it. Get your keys."

"Don't order me around, little dude. The fuck are we even getting, anyway? I have no fucking clue what we need to cook with." Bro cants his head towards John, frowning. "You know what we need, right?"

John blinks. (You are distracted by how clear and blue his eyes are.) "Well, yeah. I was going to write a list for you, but…"

Bro waves a hand, snorting. "Whatever. Just come with us."

If you hadn't been watching John so closely, you wouldn't have seen the way his body suddenly tenses. The way that his hands flex, startled.

"Oh, I uh. I haven't been outside really since…" John rubs his arm, chews on his lip and god you are suddenly overcome with the urge to hold him or pet his hair, anything to calm him down. You can see him shaking from here.

"Should be alright. You'll have me and Dave the whole time. Little dude can even hold your hand the whole time if you'd like." Bro shrugs, but you know that he noticed too. He's too sharp to miss this kind of shit.

As soon as he says it, John's hand is wrapped tightly around your wrist. He smiles up at you, and his expression is covered in all the uncertainty he can't bring himself to mention.

Bro raises one eyebrow. "If you feel like you're gonna throw up, though, tell me to pull the car over. It's already a fucking mess. I don't want it to smell like shit too."

"Will do."

You guide John outside, and he halts the second he steps into the sunlight, raises his face up to the sky. "Oh," he says, almost startled. "That… Man, the sun feels really good today. I'd… Huh, I'd kinda forgotten that."

Bro thumps his shoulder gently. "Move it, little man. This place can't measure up to Texas in terms of fucking heat, but it's still the middle of the goddamned summer."

John just smiles and lets you pile him into the car, buckle him in, and for a while, you think that it's going to be all okay, no hitches whatsoever. John gives vague directions to the grocery store until Bro just sighs and turns on his GPS to get directions himself because John? Is really fucking bad at giving directions. From his sheepish (sickly) smile, this isn't something that's new to him.

You lose yourself staring out the window, watching all of the verdant foliage flash by as Bro navigates towards the grocery store. Washington is really fucking green compared to the concrete you're used to in Texas.

"Pull over."

Your attention snaps instantly over to John. His voice is shaky and weak and goddamn, you didn't know it was possible for someone to turn that shade of white. When the fuck did this happen? The car screeches to the side of the road, John fumbling for the handle before it's even fully stopped. He opens the door as you're undoing your own seatbelt, and you hurry around the back of the car.

"D-Dave?" He reaches out for you, blue eyes striking in his pale face. Taking his hand, you help him out of the car and sit him down on the curb, and your gaze never leaves his face. He buries his face in his hands, breaths coming more like sobs now.

The car turns off. Leaning into you, John clutches at your hand. (You put your arm around him because god, he's shaking like he's about to fall apart.)

"You gonna hurl, little guy?" Bro asks, one hand resting on John's shoulder. He shakes his head jerkily.

"N-No." Deep breath in, tremors all the way. "I don't think so. I just. Cars. Hahaha, yeah. Kinda. Brings up that whole car accident thing." John swallows roughly, leans hard into you, closer, which you didn't know was possible. You are already pressed against him, ankle to shoulder, holding him together when he can't do it himself.

(You feel useless. Fuck, you hate it.)

Cars whizz by as John swallows and cries and shakes and slowly, so slowly, stops and wipes his face. You move away from him only when you're sure that he'll be alright, staring intently through your shades, your joints aching from how hard you were clutching him. He takes a few more deep breaths. Nods.

"Alright, let's … let's try again."

Bro just nods back and helps John back in the car. When you slide in, you move all the way into the middle seat without hesitation, hooking your ankle around John's. He leans into you, still shaking, and you don't even think twice about putting your arm around him again.

You meet Bro's eyes in the rearview mirror and he snorts. "Always figured you'd end up riding bitch, little dude."

"Oh shut the fuck up and drive, jackass."

"Language, bro. I taught you how to swear better than that."

John laughs weakly beside you, and you count that as the victory it is.

Once you get to the grocery store, the shopping itself doesn't take long –though the extended argument that John and Bro have when Bro picks John up and puts him in the cart garners you quite a few odd looks- but the drive back seems interminable. John is pale and sweating in the seat next to you, but he doesn't call for the car to be pulled over on the way home.

You thread your fingers through his and hold him as tightly as he clings to you.

The next few days are… weird. You don't know how to look after John, he doesn't know how to look after himself, and as much as you love Bro, he never really knew how to look after anyone other than himself, much less a blind kid in an unfamiliar home.

There are a few rules of the household though that you figure out through trial and error (and a little bit of yelling on John's part).

John's the only one allowed to cook. After the debacle of Bro's disastrous breakfast, it is clear that his cooking skills extended only to ordering fast food and take-out. You know for a fact that you shouldn't be trusted with much more than a microwave or a sandwich, and yet somehow it feels like a bad idea to trust the blind kid with all of the cooking. But he's good at it, or good at least at directing you to put food where he wants it when it's supposed to be there. Everything comes out edible, so you suppose it'll have to do.

He can, in fact, bathe himself. He doesn't appreciate the irony of a combined Strider-Egbert bath time if the way he shrieked when Bro plopped down in the tub with him is any indication. (You're too busy being stoically amused to analyze the strange mix of disappointment and relief this elicits.)

No strifing inside. This one doesn't need much of an explanation. John says that that's what the yard and roof are for, and you, Li'l Cal, and Bro are always up for a clear battleground.

No one enters his dad's room. Not even John. Especially not John. That place is more off-limits than the West fucking Wing.

Other than that, he's pretty chill with letting you two do your thing. He learns quickly where the turntables have been set up after running into them four or five times, and he finds your rap battles more hilarious than awe inspiring because he has _awful_ taste.

(You wonder, for about a day or so, why he's not insisting that you watch those terrible movies that he likes, and you almost ask him but your brain catches up with you just before you make a really fucking dumb mistake and actually _say it_.)

But John is, at heart, a prankster. And he meant it when he said that he was going to get Bro back.

You're always willing to lend a bro a hand, the two of you snickering to each other as you get it all set up. Buckets here, confetti here, Egbert's pranks, in your opinion, really need some work (possibly some more swords or strifing or something), but you suppose that the old-fashioned sense of it all fits him.

You sprawl casually across the couch in the living room, waiting for Bro to exit the bathroom. (Dude takes way too fucking long in the shower, but hey, gives you more than enough time to set this shit up.) Every time you look at John, though, you have to swallow back your laughter, and the sound of that sets off his little huffing laughs.

The door opens.

(You suppress your laughs as best you can.)

You look over your shoulder just in time to see Bro, clad only in his sunglasses and a towel, thank merciful fuck, cock his head curiously at the bucket in front of him before tapping it with his foot. "What the fuck man? I told you that you didn't need any of this bullshit anymore. You've got yourself a pair of bona fide Strider guard dogs."

Egbert, still looking straight ahead, smiles sunnily and you stifle the urge to laugh with a deep breath in and out. "Well, I just don't feel secure going to sleep without a few buckets lying around. It's been a while since I've slept on my own, what can I say. Sorry if it's an inconvenience to you. Hehehe."

"An inconvenience? Fuck no, little man. Just interesting because really, you don't need this anymore." The tall man leans over and picks up the buckets easily, turning around to dump them in the bathroom, not displacing his towel by a single inch. "How the fuck did you get them outside the door anyway? You're blind as shit."

You cough, trying to turn the laugh that's bubbling up in your belly into something inconspicuous. John doesn't even bother hiding his grin.

Bro looks over at you and apparently you can't get your smile off your face fast enough because his mouth twists. "Oh, I see how it is. Betrayed by my own blood. The retribution I will visit upon you will be swift and wickedly fierce. You will never be prepared enough for the prank war I am about to unleash."

Snorting, you lean back into the couch's cushions and cross your arms. "Like I won't retaliate. The destruction we wreak will be legendary in its expansiveness. It will be the prank war to end all prank wars."

The two of you stare at each other, waiting for the proper moment to initiate the impending rap battle and it isn't until John coughs, tilting his head between you and your brother, that you break the challenging gaze. "Have I been forgotten here? I'm sort of the pranking master, you know."

Bro snorts. "I'll help you get him and I promise not to prank you."

"Deal."

"Oh, and here I wasn't going to prank you because you were going to help me prank him! Way to show bro-solidarity, Egbert, jeez."

John just shrugs expansively, still smiling. "You'll survive."

Bro points his first two fingers between his eyes and yours enough times that you've definitely gotten the message that he's watching you before he walks into the study and-

-promptly dumps the waiting bucket of ice and water straight onto his head.

You cover your mouth as John bursts out into peals of laughter, both of you grinning ear to ear. Bro is fucking _soaked_ and it's awesome, because you managed to catch him off guard for one of the few times in your life. Doesn't matter that he just came out of the shower. Even his shades are askew, you notice as he slowly turns around.

"It is _on_ ," he hisses.

You run for your life.

John isn't far behind you, hand wrapped around your wrist as you navigate through your predetermined escape route, breathless and laughing, and fuck this is awesome.

He catches you two eventually, of course, flash-stepping in front of you so you crash into him. John giggles helplessly as Bro lifts him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. "Welp, this fine piece of ass is getting thrown into the oven, I guess. See how _you_ like getting cooked."

John yelps and struggles until Bro finally drops him on the couch, just in time for a phone to go off. You and Bro raise your eyebrows as John pats down his pockets until he finds his phone and in one smooth motion, he lifts it to his ear.

"Hello? … Oh, hey Rose! How are you?" John grins widely, absently fixing his glasses. "What? Yeah, no, I'm fine, I promise. Sorry for-… Dave? Yeah, he's right here, why? … Oh, he's going to be living with me now!"

You wince. Not like she probably hadn't already guessed that, but you can practically feel the upcoming mockery oozing from the phone. You are never going to hear the end of it.

"…You mean he didn't…" John pauses. Searches for your hand, and you step forward to let him find it, surprised at the strength that he grips you with. "Ahaha, right. Um. See, it's a long story… Yeah, yeah of course I'm going to tell you, I just. I dunno. It's hard, you know?" He laughs slightly, nervously. "No I uh… I was in a car accident. About a month ago. My dad … was killed. And I may or … may not have gone blind because of it?"

He's silent for a terrifying expanse of time, getting tenser and tenser by the second. But Lalonde finally says something and the tension immediately breaks. "Yeah, I'm fine other than that," John replies. "I… I'm really glad that Dave's here now. I was kinda alone before that. Yeah. …What?" He cocks his head towards you. "…sure? Hang on."

He takes the phone down from his ear and offers it to you. "She says she wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, because that's not sketch as hell," you grumble as you take the phone. "S'up, Lalonde?"

"I must admit, Dave, this is not the outcome I exactly suspected."

You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose under your shades. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"Though your prior reticence makes much more sense now. I can understand why you wouldn't want to speak of it before. Not without speaking with him first." There is a slight pause as she shifts on her side of the phone. "How is he?"

"…Like Egbert. A total dork." John makes a face at you for that, and you stick your tongue out at him before you remember that he can't see you.

"Strider."

"What, Lalonde. He's… Egbert, okay? What else can I say?"

Rose makes a considering noise that you're not exactly sure is an agreement or not. "How has he been managing his accident?"

"…He seems fine. Nothing really odd other than that whole blind thing."

Sprawling his arm across the back of the couch, John touches your elbow and makes the same, wrinkly nose face. "You know," he whispers. "She could have asked me about all of this."

At the same time, Rose continues, voice dry. "Really. There isn't a thing that is psychologically odd about him despite him having seen someone close to him die in an incredibly gruesome manner."

"Wow, way to bring down the mood, Lalonde. I told you, he's fine. Nothing out of place, just temporarily blind." You rap the back of your knuckles almost fondly against Egbert's skull. "His cranium is too thick to crack with thin shit like that."

The dig is totally worth it for the offended expression that covers John's face.

"David, I don't think you are considering the full implications of what he could have experienced," Rose says seriously, and you tilt your head towards the phone, scowling. "A car crash is no small matter, no matter what happened, but this could have been potentially traumatic, especially given the month of neglect that occurred afterwards. You need to have him see someone, just in case."

Your mouth tightens. "He's fine."

"David-"

"No, Lalonde, listen to me, he's fine. And if he's not, having the Striders around will be enough to fucking help, got that?" You breathe in, out, ignore the concerned eyebrow movements you're getting from Egbert. "We're taking care of him now. Family takes-"

"-Care of family, yes, I know," Rose interjects smoothly. "But if you do have to seek additional aid, remember that I told you so first."

"Whatever, you broad. How're you and your mom doing anyway?"

That gets her off your back for a while as she rambles about how her mom is out to get her yadda yadda, whatever. Eventually, you're able to pass the phone back to Egbert and let him wrap up the conversation while you duck into the bathroom and press shaking hands to your eyes because fuck her, Striders take care of their own. John will be totally fine. No help necessary.

You can handle it.

By the time you get back out to the living room, John has hung up with Rose. He turns his head towards the sound of your footsteps, and you are struck again with how small he seems, with how fragile that makes him, stress bruises still visible in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"You okay, dude?" You ask, hands clenching tight in your pockets.

He blinks and smiles and the expression is just a half-beat off and wrong. "Yeah. Fine. I just… uh. I'm hungry? Wanna help me cook?"

John follows you for the rest of the evening, never wanting to be too far away from you. You keep finding his hand on your arm, his chin on your shoulder, fingers tucked into your belt loops, and his expression is wide and lost. You wonder what the hell Lalonde said to him once you were gone. John won't say, though, not like you can really ask him in the first place.

When you help him into bed that night, it's like he doesn't really want you to leave. You close the door behind you, make your way downstairs until you find your blankets on the floor of the living room.

(You wish you understood the dreading twist in your stomach.)

* * *

You don't know what wakes you up. That seems to be a common theme of the week.

But your eyes are suddenly open, blinking wide in the darkness of the house. You wait for a second, wondering if you can figure it out without having to move, but nothing happens. The house is quiet other than the soft hum of the air conditioning and other appliances, and you can hear the steady noise of Bro breathing from where you are on the floor.

You glance upstairs. You're a little too… aware to go back to sleep. Maybe you should just go ahead and check around to see what's all happening. Can't hurt. Quietly, you sit up, stumble upright. Kitchen first for some water, then upstairs. You shuffle into the kitchen, stick your hands under the faucet, slurp up some of the water there.

Bro's still out when you get back into the living room, and you look up the stairs, taking the time to let your eyes adjust slowly. What in the world could have woken you up? Egbert, maybe? Who knows, maybe the kid needed to piss and fell over?

Seems like something he'd do.

Silently, you make your way up the stairs, checking the bathroom up there. No sign of John, and it looks like his bedroom is closed. Maybe your danger-senses were just fucking with you?

You eye the door for a second before reaching out and turning the handle. Can't hurt to check. The door creaks open and you hold your breath, but it doesn't seem like John notices. You hear him shift, shift, shift restlessly. The darkness in the room has a different quality, seemingly thicker and more present than it is in the hallways, and it takes your eyes a little longer to figure out where John is laying. Once you do, you just watch him in the deep dark of his room, trying to figure out what feels… wrong about this scenario. John twitches again, flipping from one side to the other, and this time, you hear it.

A tiny, little whimper.

_"Dad. **No.** "_

You're frozen to the spot, a sickening twist to your stomach. You swallow roughly. Shit. He's having… nightmares. Nightmares of the car accident.

You suppose that you should have anticipated this, but somehow, it never occurred to you that he'd have bad dreams when really, you should have made sure that he was okay so many times before this. So many nights alone. Your mind reels with the realization that it's not only the few weeks that you and Bro have been here, it's also the entire month before that he's been alone.

John makes this pitifully high, twisting groan, and your paralysis breaks. You sit down on the edge of his bed carefully, card your fingers through his hair. "Shhh," you whisper, heart pounding high in your throat. "Shhhh…"

His twitching subsides. Turning his nose into the palm of your hand, John breathes out in a long stream broken by hiccupping little sobs. His brow furrows as he inhales, turns over towards you. Heart pounding hard, you try to retract your hand, but he whines when you do.

With a soft smile, you keep stroking his hair. Needy little fucker.

Something must disturb his sleep, though, as he suddenly tenses, eyes flying open. You start for just a second before you remember that he can't see you and continue petting his hair. He shivers, grabs your hand.

"…Dave?" he asks quietly, voice barely over a whisper, unseeing eyes blinking wide in the dark room.

"Yeah, Egbert?"

He breathes out, all of the tension pent up in his frame suddenly dissipating. "Oh good. I thought it had been someone else."

You shift uncomfortably. Idiot. You hadn't thought of that. "My bad." But he smiles up at you, a few inches off like you're getting used to, and shakes his head.

"Just glad it's you and not someone else." His words are molasses-thick with sleep and he turns over on his back, curling his fingers around your hand. "Why're you here?"

"…You were having a nightmare."

He winces. Not surprised then. You'd bet that means he's had them before. "But… You were downstairs! Did I wake you up? Please don't say I was screaming."

"No, I was… already up here." You shrug awkwardly, not bothering to resist the urge to pet his hair again with your free hand. "I woke up on my own and decided to see how my best bro was doing."

John's smile twists slightly, becoming melancholy. "Yeah. Th-thanks for that, Dave."

"What was it about?"

You wince once the words leave your mouth. Real fucking smooth, Strider. _Real_ fucking smooth.

He doesn't answer for a long time, the words seemingly difficult to get out. Finally, like the response is being dragged out of him, John answers, "…Dad. The last thing I saw was… well. The car crash, right? But I remember seeing him…" And that's all that he can manage, tears and sobs clogging his throat.

Immediately, you lie down, tug him close to you. You curl tightly around his back, waiting for his shudders to abate (which, of fucking course, doesn't happen). One of your arms slides under his head, the other over his waist to pull him closer and closer, and you bury your nose in the soft hair at the top of his neck, eyes shut tight.

"Shh, hey, I'm sorry, s'cool, alright? Alright, don't think about it, it's cool, it's gonna be okay, you'll see." Your lips ghost his neck as you murmur all of this. His hand grasps yours, and he's shaking, deep, ugly, wrenching sobs tearing out of him, and all you can do is hold him tighter.

God, you wish you were better at this. On impulse, you start humming, soft and slow, raspy. It fills in the spaces where he hiccups for breath, and marginally, he starts relaxing back into you.

You lose track of time there, humming aimlessly at him because _there's nothing else you can do_.

"I just..." and the choked whisper startles you into silence, the tune you had going fading into John's words and breath. He curls up tight, and the bone-deep despair in his voice hurts just to listen to. "I just don't understand why I _survived_."

Oh.

You suck in a breath.

Oh damn. You're fairly certain that your heart isn't supposed to twist like that.

"Why did _I_ survive when… when my dad didn't?" Your body twines with John's, aching to pull him out of this; if only you could pull him out of this with skin to skin contact.

Taking a deep breath, you can feel his spine all against your chest and stomach, feel how he's still crying and how terrifyingly silent it is. "For what it's worth," you offer softly, "I'm so fucking glad you lived. And I think your dad would be too. So don't you feel fucking guilty. You're lucky, and that's it, alright? The only thing to do now is keep going."

He doesn't answer immediately, which you kind of expect, given the circumstances, but after a little bit, John nods, still trembling.

You're unsure how long you lay there wrapped around him, entranced by the synchronization of your breaths. In, out, your stomach against his spine. In and out. You're lost in that rhythm, eyes closed and heart aching for your best friend who has been alone too long.

But you're here now. And he's going to be fine.

Lifting yourself up on one elbow, you look at his face. When the bastard fell asleep, you don't know, but his grip on your hand hasn't really lessened, so you're sort of stuck here until he either wakes up, or lets you go. Bro is going to give you such shit for this in the morning, but you silently lie back down; press your forehead against the back of his skull.

"I've got you, John," you whisper into his skin. "I've got ya. It's gonna be okay now. I'm here, you're not alone. Lemme take care of ya."

These are the things you say to him when he sleeps, your accent coming out and rounding your consonants and vowels into soothing shapes. Like they can erase what happened to him, or like they can make it better. You're helpless in this sort of situation and you know it, and so you cling to him and attempt in vain to make it up to him. Make your absence, your helplessness, better, excusable.

"It's okay, I'm here now." Fingers curl around yours, and you tuck your knees up behind his, trying as hard as you can to get close to him. "I've got you now."

It's useless, because you'll never stop feeling like you should have been able to stop it, like you can absolve his misplaced guilt, and because he'll never know.

"It's okay."

And if those words are a little watery, and there is wetness sliding across the bridge of your nose and your shades, down your cheek, soaking the pillow and John's hair, well. He's not awake. He'll never know.

"It'll be okay."

You hold him closer and hum tuneless songs until sleep finally takes you.


	3. You Know I'm a Forgiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, but hey, fics, real life, job, etc etc, school starting tomorrow, what can you do! It is, at this time, that I'd like to mention two things! First, feel free to follow my insanity on tumblr! Username's zenellyraen. I write prompts. You might know me for the AssholeJohn AU continuity that is beginning to take speed. I have no idea. I just love you all.
> 
> Second! The lovely Juntatsuya on tumblr has drawn fanart for the last part of the second chapter! Find it here: http://juntatsuya.tumblr.com/post/26794622419/and-if-those-words-are-a-little-watery-and-there

Light streaming through the window wakes you in slow increments, and you don’t move for the longest time, just breathing in the scent of John’s skin. You trace the curve of his cheek and ears with gentle, exploratory fingertips as your mind rouses itself. He’s so warm. That’s the most you’re able to focus on for now, and it’s really all you _want_ to focus on. He’s warm and soft and smells good and you want to take care of him, to make him feel better, to make sure that he doesn’t get hurt again because he’s your John. Your best bro.

Someone you would die for.

The thought makes your heart lurch in strange ways. Sure, he’s your best friend in existence (and you send out a mental apology to Jade and Rose, but you’re sure they’d understand), but death? How protective you are of him? That’s not exactly…usual, is it?

But then again, all of this awful shit has happened to him, and it all happened when you weren’t there to help him and-

-somehow they’re related.

You don’t want anything else bad to happen to him. He doesn’t deserve it. (He didn’t deserve the first time, but.)

You prop yourself up on an elbow, careful to not jostle John in his sleep. His eyelashes are so long, you notice in the morning light, and he has a smattering of freckles right across the bridge of his nose, faint, but there. Nowhere near as many as you have, though but you blame that on how much tanner he is than you despite the intensity of the Texas sun.

His nose is slightly crooked, turned up just the barest bit at the tip, and even in sleep his mouth is bowed upwards at the corners. You have this sudden, possessive thought that this smile is yours, because you’re there, protecting him. You don’t know where it comes from, and you try to put it out of your mind.

Man, how in the world is he so warm? You know he’s not running a fever, because it’s not the clammy kind of heat. He’s just… so warm, so comfortable, tucked against your hips and stomach, and his slightly smaller frame is just at the perfect height to curl up around. Your other hand hasn’t moved from John’s, fingers still twined loosely together, and he’s just so close and so warm that you lie back down, nosing into the hair at the base of his neck.

Just a few more minutes of aimless drowsing can’t hurt, right?

You close your eyes, drawing in the smell of his skin and the heavy, cloying air of sleep-scent. Yeah. Can’t hurt to just let yourself drift along, John in your arms and that smell all around you.

“Oh man, this is downright domestic.”

Fuck.

Never mind.

You jerk your hand back from where it was stroking John’s shoulder, lifting yourself up enough to glare daggers at Bro.

He grins back at you, cross-armed in the doorway. “Fucking hell, little dude, you were gettin’ cozy as shit with him, weren’t you? Do I need to leave so you can have your more _intimate_ cuddle time?”

“Fuck off, Bro,” you croak, throat dry. Your voice comes out crackly and dark, and John stirs slightly. You tighten your hand around his soothingly and he subsides with a content little murmur.

Bro stares pointedly. You raise your other hand to flip him off. “I was wondering where you had gotten to. Li’l Cal mentioned that you never made it back to bed after getting up in the middle of the night,” Bro says, quieter now as he enters the room.

“Egbert had a nightmare.” You have no idea when your arm snuck back around the dark haired boy, pulling him against you again, but you’re not going to move it now. “I didn’t want him to go back to sleep alone.”

“The accident?”

“Yeah.”

Bro nods to himself, unsurprised. “Wondered about that.”

The two of you are quiet, examining John in your own ways, Bro inscrutable, you with gentle fingertips and wondering eyes. After a while of quiet, you ask, “Do you think he’s going to be okay?”

“I don’t see why the fuck not. He’s got you for a best bro, me as a best big bro, he’s not alone anymore. We’re taking care of him. It’ll work out.” Bro shrugs, sits down on the bed next to Egbert’s knees, and he reaches out to pat John with just his fingertips. “He’ll be fine, little dude.”

You nod because you don’t want to speak. You don’t want to voice your fears and worries about not being enough to help him because fuck that, that shit’s weak. Doesn’t matter so much if you’re not able. What matters is the attempt, and you’re going to give it your all. You will be fucked if he doesn’t get better because you didn’t try hard enough. At the very least, he isn’t alone. You’ll take care of him. You and Bro both.

John stirs. Bro is out the door in a flash in one of his rare moments of actual fucking tact, and the door swings shut just before John twitches and lets his eyes open. Frowns.

“Dave?”

Swallowing, you nod, then answer, your voice rough. “Yeah, dude?”

“Good morning.” And he turns over carefully, hands sliding down your arms like he needs to ground himself there. John smiles towards your larynx, his breath too close and his face is right against yours, your noses brushing together with every inhale, and best friends do not want to nuzzle forward to fit your lips against theirs, what in the world is wrong with you? He’s too close and not close enough and it’s way too early to deal with this dizzying cyclone of _want._

Eventually, you reply softly, “Morning,” and it’s full of all of the confused protective impulses you have, all the sorrow and the need to keep him safe, and he wrinkles his nose in confusion, eyes falling shut once more. Before he can ask, you hurriedly say, “Hey, so, wanna direct me through the fucking intricate waltz that results in pancakes again, or are we doing the foxtrot towards cereal?”

He laughs and the moment is gone, the tension that was stringing you tight cut without warning. “Pancakes. I don’t know if we have enough milk to fill the stomachs of two black holes on legs with cereal. Do you remember how to get started?”

You do, but you shake your head as he rolls over and gets up carefully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Not a fucking clue, man.”

“Shame on you, Dave Strider. It’s simple.” And he verbally walks you through it as you help him get dressed, tossing him a pair of pants (and studiously looking away, because he’s … alluring when he’s all sleep-rumpled and what the fuck is wrong with you, he’s your best friend). As he pulls a shirt on – backwards, you can’t help but notice- you suddenly realize that he’s not wearing his glasses today. You frown to yourself. It’s not like he needs them, really. And you’ve only known him for a week or so, so there’s no excuse there, but. John Egbert, minus glasses, equals damn, his eyes are really fucking blue and now there’s nothing in the way of that, no glare or enhancement you can blame it on.

It’s all you can think about while you lead him downstairs and sit him in his chair in the kitchen, where he can listen to you follow his instructions. Your head is so not screwed on right. He’s your friend. And you need to stop getting your priorities mixed. John needs you here as a friend, and clearly, your protective urges and teenaged hormones (damn them, the uncooperative little shits) are getting _very_ confused.

Bro slinks into the kitchen between one pancake flip and the next, looking somehow immaculate and groggy at the same time, like he totally didn’t walk in on you snuggling the shit out of John, and you appreciate the charade, since it’s for your sake, not John’s. You plop a plateful of breakfast in front of him and in front of John, turning off the stove a few seconds later. There is a comfortable agreement to chow down instead of trying to talk, which you definitely appreciate.

You’re about to suggest a movie or something, but Bro’s head jerks up and he lifts his hand up to stall you. Following his gaze, you end up watching the front door, John making confused noises behind you.

There’s a scratching noise. The jangle of keys

Something jostles in the front door, then a long silence. You step forward, noticing Bro do the same in your periphery. John, having slid off his chair, cocks his head in the corner of your eyes, frowning.

A knock.

“Little dude, answer the door.”

You side-eye Bro. “You sure? Could be-”

Another series of knocks.

“Answer the door,” he repeats, and you know he’s waiting for you to obey, no questions. You snort, but hey, you figure he knows what he’s doing. You open the door and are faced with-.

A tall, kind of portly man stands in the doorway, his face severe and disapproving behind his mustache. You have no idea who he is, but the disdainful stare he’s giving you makes you want to slug him right in the face. Instead, you swallow the urge and glare back through your shades. “Yeah, can I help you?”

(Bro never said you had to be nice about it.)

The guy’s mustache actually _bristles_ , how about that. You didn’t think that was physically possible. “Yes, you can let me into this house. For _some reason_ , my key isn’t working.”

You’re about to open your mouth and ask why the fuck this guy would even have a key when Bro speaks up from behind you. “I changed the locks, dude. Wasn’t safe to keep them on when someone unscrupulous could’ve snuck in here and fucked around with shit.”

John makes some noise from his position behind Bro, some vague greeting and it clicks.

Oh.

This must be him. John’s uncle.

The son of a bitch who deserted your traumatized best friend for a fucking month.

Bro’s hand claps down on your shoulder, effectively halting the aborted lunge you were going to do. Your hackles are raised, and you pull away from Bro’s hand in order to calm yourself down because it doesn’t matter how much you _want_ to pound this asshole’s face in, you can’t do it. John would probably be so upset with you.

The jackass in the doorway sneers at you, dismissing you with barely more than a glance. That pisses you off too. This guy just pisses the fuck out of you, and god you’d love to challenge him to a strife and kick his ass. End up with your sword against his throat, and you take a deep breath in to calm down. “So,” he drawls, condescension dripping from every word. “Can I ask _why_ you’re here in the house with my defenseless and blind nephew?”

John scowls, upset at the defenseless part, but he’s still tucked protectively behind Bro so Asshole-Uncle doesn’t see it.

“Because Dave here is the little dude’s best friend. We came up here from Texas when we heard what had happened,” Bro answers, voice tight, and you’re amazed by the amount of tense restraint you can feel coursing through him. He must be barely holding himself back from punching the douchebag in the face. He has more self-control than you do. “We’ve been here for about a week and a half now. Where’ve _you_ been?”

“Busy,” Douchebag Uncle answers with a disdainful sniff. “I have my own things to do, you know. I can’t afford to look after little Johnny nearly so much as I would like. Work and all.” He eyes Bro up and down, then smiles, sickly sweet. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Completely,” Bro deadpans. His gaze never once wavers from the uncle’s face.

Uncle Whatever-The-Fuck flicks a glance at both you and John before returning his gaze to Bro. He keeps shifting from foot to foot and you can’t help but to think that in a more primal world, he would never be alpha in anything. His throat would be torn out too fast. “Can we go somewhere to … discuss a few things out of the earshot of the children?”

“Yeah, of course. Study’s back this way.”

“I am well aware of where my brother’s study is.”

They walk off, Bro’s hands shoved into his pockets. But he doesn’t take the time to tell you to not follow, just glances at you as he passes.

You manage to wait until the door closes behind them before you snort, turning towards John. “’Little Johnny’? Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?”

John sniffs, a weak smile tilting his lips. “What, you mean you don’t find that funny in an ironic sense? That’s weird. Who are you, and what have you done with Dave?”

“Sorry, Dave can’t be reached, he’s been replaced by someone who gives a flying fuck about you. Me instead of that douchebag. Fuck, I need more insults. The English language doesn’t contain nearly enough profanity for me to express my fucking rage.” You scuff the carpet with your toe, judging time. After a few moments of waiting in silence, you nod. “That should be long enough. Wanna go eavesdrop?”

John blinks in surprise, his eyebrow rising. “What? Dave, we can’t do that. They’re talking about stuff!”

You scoff. “Yeah, stuff that concerns you. I’m curious, I’m sure you’re tired of being left in the da-” Ooh, bad choice of words, but you’re committed now and you have to let it slide with no more than a small wince. “-rk about what’s going on with you. So we’re going to eavesdrop.”

And yeah, there’s the scowl you were expecting. Whoops. “I’m in the dark a lot lately. Seems to be a side effect of being blind.”

“So, there’s no reason for you to be socially blind too! Come on, just follow me. You’re going to end up doing it anyway.”

His scowl turns self-deprecating. Almost fond. Wait, no, not that kind of fond, damn it. Friendly. “Sometimes, I hate how well you know me.” But you know he doesn’t mean it, because he offers you his hand to lead him down the hallway.

The two of you are stealthy as shit as you sneak down the hallway, all tip-toes and achingly slow steps. Bro was good to you though, having left the door to the study slightly ajar, barely enough to be noticeable, and you lead John around to the other side of the door, where the crack is, leaning close to hear better. It seems like they’re in the middle of talking about John, go fucking figure.

“-don’t need to be here. Your presence is superfluous and frankly, a danger to the safety of my nephew.”

“We’re doing him more good than you have,” Bro snaps, and you can hear the creak of his gloves as he flexes his hands. You are intimately familiar with that sound. It normally comes before you get yourself punched straight in the nuts. All shots are fair whilst strifing. You just wish that situation stretched to include this.

 “What good do you think you’re doing him? He has to go to school soon, you realize, and he has to be treated with care, given his new… condition.” Holy shit, if this guy’s words dripped any more condescension, you could probably release a whole new line of syrup with his fucking name on it, because _damn_.  Condescension flavored syrup. Fit for every dysfunctional and damaging breakfast.

“And the little dude will be there to help him the whole time. I’ve got him transferred over and everything already-“ which is news to you, but not really surprising. You knew that Bro would get it all figured out. “They’ll be in all the same classes and-”

“And when Johnny graduates in the spring? What will you do then?”

There’s a deadly silence that fills the spaces the tension leaves in the air. John’s uncle says, softly, like he’s doing them a favor, “Do you even know _why_ he’s blind?”

The silence gets worse.

“I did not think so.”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Bro says, and his voice is even and icy, like the glacier coming to take down the Titanic, and you’d hate to be at the other end of that. “He’s here, we’re here, we’re taking care of him, that’s that. No questions asked. We’re not leaving for any reason, capische? Unless you want to drop off more uncooked groceries for a kid who can’t see, you can get the hell out of _our_ house.”

Whoops, that’s your cue to get away from the door.

There’s a derisive sniff from Uncle Twatwaffle and his voice gets louder; you guess that he’s turning towards you. “If you want to trouble yourself with a worthless blind child, feel free. I certainly won’t stop you.”

You turn around, ready to grab John and get back to the living room, but, John’s just. Standing there. Your chest twists uncomfortably, a sympathy pain to the absolute devastation that’s on John’s face, counterpoint to the tears that are streaming down his face.

Right.

_Worthless blind child._

“Oh,” John whispers.

Fuck, you’re going to kill his uncle.

Until then, you just grab his arm, tug him along behind you as you head upstairs, not even bothering to be quiet this time. Bro knows you were there, you know that, and John’s uncle _deserves_ to know that you were there. You go to John’s room without pause, pushing him onto the bed (and damn it, hormones, cut it out, this is not teenaged fantasy time, this is fucking comfort time), and curling in around him immediately.

Luckily, John didn’t seem to notice your pause. He lets you pull him close, his hands fisting in your shirt like you’re some kind of lifeline. His body is wound tight, though, tense and shaking, and you pull his face forward, the length of your body pressing close against his, trying to absorb his sorrow, trying to mold yourself around him.

“Oh,” John gasps, broken and sad, face buried in your neck as he shakes apart. “I didn’t, I mean, I _knew_ , but I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” you start, and he laughs at you, the sound manic and wild. (He doesn’t let you go, which is good, because if John tries to move, you’re afraid that he’d notice how hard you’re holding on to him.)

“No, it’s not. It’s not fucking okay, Dave. My own uncle doesn’t even…”

And silently, you have to agree with him. It’s not okay. John’s uncle is wrong and needs to get pummeled into the pavement, which is hopefully what Bro’s doing right now.

_Worthless blind child._

Who the fuck even says that to someone?

You pet John’s hair gently. “You know it’s not true, right? Because it’s totally not true.”

There’s a watery laugh from somewhere around your collarbones. “Dave, you’re awful at this. Do all Striders attempt to awkwardly cuddle the feelings out of people without having to talk about it?”

“Yeah, pretty much. You’re not man enough for a feelings jam,” Bro says from the doorway just before he slides in on John’s other side. John doesn’t even protest, just pulls Bro closer.

The movie can wait until John stops crying.

* * *

A few hours later finds the three of you in a bizarre mess of blankets and pillows in the living room, Con Air playing in the background while John stares blankly off the side of the screen and mouths the lines to himself. He still tugs at your sleeve, points out a good part to you (perfectly in time, and if that's not disgusting, then you don't know what is, clearly he's seen this too much).

Meanwhile, you have your laptop open are you're chatting with Rose, bitching about John's douche of an uncle because rage is still curled in the pit of your stomach. That's not going to go away. You keep turning the encounter over in your mind, the words he spat at your brother just as he was leaving, just. It won't leave you. And John doesn't need to listen to you rap it out, so instead you'll just bitch at your cousin. She gets it.

TG: seriously though it just  
TG: pisses me off  
TG: how could he just dismiss something like that so easily?  
TG: johns his nephew for fucks sake  
TG: blind and worthless my fucking ass  
TT: Yes, David, I am aware. His uncle does raise a valid point, however. Do either you or Bro know why John is blind?  
TG: nah man not really  
TG: never came up i guess  
TG: best bro was just blind and it was like well shit time to go play nanny and take care of him you know everybody move texas aint it anymore  
TT: Oh, I know. You two are impossible. Did it never occur to you to ask?  
TG: obviously not toots  
TG: come on whats the point hes blind alright  
TG: no reason to keep dragging it up  
TT: Except for the fact that it must have a reason. Why haven't you asked? Perhaps it pertains to his nightmares? You remember, surely, those things that you told me you calmed him down from?

You blink.

Huh. That's a good point.

"Hey, John?"

"Mmm?" He turns his head towards you, closer to actually _looking_ at you. He's getting better at that. "What is it?"

"Why are you blind?"

Rgh, real smooth, Strider, really. You are the epitome of charismatic and totally not blunt at all, good job. John's mouth twists before he answers slowly, like you're a dumb child.

"Because I got in a car-"

You shake your head, interrupting him. "No no, not that reason. The medical one. Do you know what's actually all backwards in there that's stopping you from seeing?"

He pauses, cocks his head. This time, his voice is curious as he answers, "No… You know, I don't actually… They never gave me a reason, really. Maybe it's written in the medical file somewhere. Hang on, it should be … somewhere…" John almost gets up and starts looking around before he shakes his head with a wry smile. "Ugh, like I'd know. Um. Try the desk in Dad's… study."

Bro's already out of the room before you even try to stand up. You settle back into the mass of blankets, laptop perched on your knees.

TG: bros on it  
TT: Why is your brother on it? Did John not have an adequate answer?  
TG: not in the slightest  
TG: parently the nurses or doctors or whatever never actually told him  
TG: bet the douchebucket knows though  
TT: Oh right. John's uncle. For a second there, I was concerned about your potential use of harmful feminine hygiene products.  
TG: har-dee-fucking-hah  
TT: Keep me up to date, David.  
TG: stop calling me that

"What's she saying?" John leans against you like it'll help him understand the conversation, like if he touches your skin, he can somehow share your sight.

So you shrug and don't move away as you tell him, "She's just asking about your medical records and calling me 'David'. Nothing big, really. Just her usual shit." You can feel his body shake as he laughs at you, and it brings the faintest of smiles to your face. Much better, even if John grabs your arm a second later and jostles you, trying to get you to pay attention to the shitty ass movie still playing.

That's curtailed by Bro dropping a manila folder in your lap. John pretty much totally ignores you as you open it (whoops, flipping past _those_ pictures, you don't need to see that at all).

The daunting pages stand in front of you and you scowl.

Fucking jargon.

But you buckle down to read them anyway. It takes you a fair while, Con Air playing out in the background before Bro steals the remote from John and puts on another awful movie that both he and John like. For completely different reasons, you're sure. Something about the Mummy. You're not exactly paying attention. No, you're too busy getting a headache from these damn documents.

Eventually, you give up and pull your laptop closer again.

TG: well that was fucking useful  
TG: not  
TT: Answers inconclusive?  
TG: there arent any answers at all  
TG: no really they don't say a damn thing about it  
TG: just  
TG: patient shows no sign of trauma to the vision centers, however he has not regained use of his blahdeeblahdeeblah medical jargon that all adds up to we dont fucking know why this kid cant see just that hes blind as shit  
TT: Dave, stop freaking out.  
TG: im not freaking out why would i be freaking out theres no reason for me to flip my shit about anything  
TT: And yet, somehow, your shit is flipping. But if the doctors had no answer for why John has become unable to see, perhaps you should call them. Maybe they needed to do follow-up work.  
TG: if they did its not mentioned anywhere in here  
TG: though i could be wrong this shit is difficult to fucking understand  
TT: I would understand if this is beyond your capacity to understand, given your underdeveloped frontal lobe and inability to deal with your emotions.  
TG: woah wait that came out of left fucking field  
TG: the fuck are you talking about lalonde  
TG: or what are you implying  
TG: lalonde  
TG: why do you always do this when i ask you important shit  
TG: do i need to sacrifice a cow to the god of answers to get you to pay attention to me for three consecutive minutes  
TT: Dear, dear, what has that poor virgin cow ever done to you?  
TG: woah there never said the cow was a virgin  
TT: Ah, so you're hiding the evidence of you despoiling a hapless bovine then. Clever, but I have seen through your plan.  
TG: damn it i walked into that one didnt i  
TT: Yes, yes you did. It was beautiful.  
TT: I have just consulted with Jade. No one decided to warn her about what has been happening with John, which is an unforgivable oversight.  
TG: oh fuck  
TG: man i have so much apologizing to do to her dont i  
TT: Yes. But she suggests an interesting interpretation of John's medical records.  
TG: yeah and whats that  
TT: That perhaps his blindness is trauma-induced.  
TG: ...english lalonde  
TT: He has no medical reason for being blind. His body is completely fine, but his mind has been so scarred by something he has seen, ergo his father's death in front of him, that he has lost his sight.  
TT: She also suggests therapy. Apparently, it can be quite effective in curing this particular malady.

You snort. Therapy. Yeah. That'll totally help. Everything you know about shrinks suggests the opposite, present company included.

TG: if that wouldve helped dont you think that his goddamned uncle wouldve payed for it or some shit like that  
TT: If he is as neglectful as you have made him out to be, then no. I would not be surprised if somewhere in those medical papers is a referral to a psychiatrist. Which I would recommend you look into.  
TG: fuck that  
TT: Excuse me?  
TG: no fuck that  
TG: were here now and were going to make this better for him  
TG: im not going to fucking push him off on someone else like hes a fucking burden  
TG: hes john for fucks sake  
TT: You are strangely adamant about this.  
TG: yeah i am  
TG: were going to make this better for him and no one else you got that  
TT: Calm your metaphorical tits, David. I will still recommend a therapist because you and Bro are not professionals. But for now, you are correct.  
TG: thank you  
TT: The best thing for him right now is to have the two of you around. Have you figured out school yet?  
TG: bro says that im signed up and ready to go with john when this shit goes down  
TT: That's good. See if there is a support group or something like that there for trauma. Counselors are not therapists, though they can help.  
TT: And don't forget to talk to Jade. She misses her brother. Here's her phone number. Have him call. I can only hold her off for so long.

She sends it to you. This seems to be a habit of hers, but at least now you know that if you want to get in touch with any of your mutual friends, Rose seems to have the means to obtain practically anything for you. Your throat tightens.

TG: hey rose?  
TT: What is it, Dave?

Ooh, Dave. She's caught on. Feelings time.

TG: thanks  
TT: Of course. I'm not one to leave a friend hanging. Now call Jade and pass the phone to John. She's become unreasonable.

\- - tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 15:23 - -

You grin and do as she tells you. It takes a while for Jade to answer her phone, but when she does, her voice is cautious with a jagged undercurrent of excitement. "Dave?"

"Aw man, you ruined the fun of trying to prank call you."

She laughs, relieved. "Don't even, cool kid. I'll talk to you later, but I really need to talk to John, like, right now. Please oh please oh please oh-"

You pass the phone to John, who fumbles for it, takes it with a reluctant smile that turns blinding once he gets it up to his ear. "Jade?"

They end up talking so loudly and enthusiastically that Bro has to pause the movie and go sulk in corner, tapping away on his computer. You leave them to it, content to bury yourself in the mess of blankets and pillows, warmed by yours and John's bodies. Your feet are shoved up against his calves, comfortable and soft, and you lean your head back into soft pillows to think.

Worthless and blind.

Worthless because he's blind.

Your fingers clench in the soft blankets.

Not to you. Not if you can help it. He's John, he's _your_ John, and his uncle can go fuck himself if he thinks that you and your Bro are going to give up on him.

You stop your line of thinking and forcibly uncurl your fingers. You will be better family, better friends, better everything to John than his uncle could have ever been. There's no way you're replacing his dad, you're just. Bridging the gap. Giving him other things to worry about. Being _there_ for him.

Turning your head to the side, you watch John's face as he talks to Jade, watches the bend and curl of his mouth as he smiles and laughs and frowns at the things she says. The stress bruises under his eyes have begun to fade, until he no longer looks like a raccoon. You can tell that yours and Bro's presence has been good for him. It's just a little worrying that you want to hold him close and kiss him until that constant crease between his eyebrows disappears, and these aren't feelings you're used to having about John. They bother you.

John slides his legs up and scrunches his toes against yours, smiling in your general direction.

Your heart pounds louder than it has a right to. You want to kiss him, and now that you've noticed once, you can't stop. You tighten your hands in the blankets again, flick your toes against his in response, and totally don't think about nuzzling against his warm skin, don't think about making him forget everything that's happened, every word his uncle has ever said to him. Don't think about kissing him. Don't think about the way the idea sends a hot curl down your spine, prickling against your skin.

Damn it.

Fuck, this wasn't supposed to happen.


	4. this old and empty house

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herro guys! Again, a bunch of apologies for taking so long with this chapter, but oh my god this chapter was a pain in the ass and you guys should be so grateful to my betas for whipping this piece of shit into shape.

You wake in darkness.

You wish that it wasn’t normal anymore, opening your eyes and seeing absolutely nothing. And maybe it’s not exactly ordinary; you still aren’t entirely prepared for it, and it definitely bothers you. Carefully, you reach out and fumble for your glasses out of habit, placing them on the bridge of your nose before you swing your legs over the side of your bed and begin the slow shuffle towards your door.

At least, you think your door is this way. There's a clear path on the floor, so as long as you don't step on any clothes, you're on the right path.

You manage to make it that far (but then again, your brain interjects snidely, this part of the journey has never been that hard). The stairs, on the other hand, still make you nervous, because you've ended up falling down them more times than you care to remember, and your legs bear the major brunt of the injuries. Dave's downstairs somewhere and there's a fairly high chance that either he or Bro will hear you before you make it all the way down. There’s a part of you that thinks maybe you should move downstairs, but. This is your room. You don’t want to change that. Too much has changed already.

Carefully, you place one foot on the top step and begin your slow descent. Every movement you make is careful, and you actually manage to make it all the way down completely fine. You feel a surge of triumph and then a sicker twist of resignation because really? It's only been a few months that you've been blind. And you're fucking gleeful because you managed a set of stairs that wouldn't have given you pause if you had your sight.

Great.

You swallow back your directionless frustration, try to breathe through it and just let it go. Maybe it should say something that you’re finally getting upset about your blindness, since you’ve only been numb to it up until now.

"Hey, you ready for school today, kid?"

Bro’s voice startles you, sending your heart racing. You turn your head to your left, try to keep breathing through your surprise and terror because you fucking hate not being able to tell where anyone is, why doesn’t anyone understand that? “…Yeah,” you finally answer him with a croak. You clear your throat before trying again. “Yeah, I’m glad to get out of the house.”

Which is a complete lie. Leaving the house means getting in a car and you only have just gotten the hang of wandering around the house with nothing to guide you, how the fuck are you going to manage a school?

“Alright, good. The little dude is going to be with you the entire time, except for your last period. He’s got gym then, and you’re going to be in ‘group counseling.’” Bro’s voice implies his air-quotes, and your mouth forms a smile at his words before your mind catches up to what he actually says.

“Wait, counseling?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate though, and you frown at him. Or near him. Fuck, this is really aggravating. You cock your head and ask, “What for?”

“Your thing, you know.” There’s the noise of rustling paper; Bro must be reading the newspaper? Or any number of other things.

Tersely, you reply, “No, actually, I don’t.”

There’s silence.

“You know, the thing that can be fixed that’s stopping you from seeing? Didn’t Dave tell you?”

The words send a sharp bolt through you and you clench your hands. You … can be fixed? You might be able to see again?  _And Dave never said **anything?**_  Your silence must answer for you, because Bro coughs, awkward, before asking.

"You didn't know?"

You work your jaw, breathing in and out like it's your only salvation. "No," you say. "No, I didn't know."

"It's called conversion disorder." Paper rustles right before you hear the drag of a computer against the table. There are typing noises, and Bro hums under his breath. “I looked it up after the little dude was done with the computer a while ago. I wanted to find out if there was something else to be done about it and lo and behold, it's a thing. Have to get you officially diagnosed, but it's a guy's best bet. So I enrolled you in the counselling class to opt you out of PE, which is such a load of bullshit to begin with, and also to hopefully get this fixed? Who knows."

You're about to say something when you hear footsteps behind you. Dave, and he's not trying to be quiet.

"Mornin', dudes," he yawns, and you are  _so furious with him_.

“Sup, little dude.” Bro’s chair scrapes back. “Found out you didn’t let John know about the whole conversion disorder or whatever with him? What’s up with that?” And his voice is casual, too casual for the vitriol you want, for how you want to make Dave bleed with it.

There’s a beat of silence (and you think it feels guilty,  _and it should_ ). “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I wanted to make sure, since, you know, we’re really only guessing when it all boils down.”

“We?” you ask, and you know that your voice is hard and cracking. “Who else knew before I did?”

You swear you can feel Dave’s regard turning towards you and you flex your hands, try to breathe in to calm down. After a few beats of quiet, he answers; it’s clear he doesn’t know why you’re upset or angry and that. That just pisses you off more. “Rose does. She’s the one who suggested it.”

“So, can anyone tell me why  _I_  wasn't told about any of this?" you bite out, tasting the fury in your mouth riding along your tongue. Fuck, was he never going to tell you? Oh yeah, you're not blind because there's  _actually_ something wrong with you, you're blind because your  _brain_  doesn’t want to fucking work right. Because that's  _so_  much better. "That's so awesome, Dave, yeah, I totally didn't want to know that I can be fixed, or that nothing got messed up with me and that I just need some counseling! And it was so nice that you just didn’t say anything at all!"

“I don't see what the big rush is, man-” Dave starts, and you inhale sharply, snap.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I just don’t want the last thing I ever saw to be my dad’s bleeding, dead body two feet from my face!”

Fuck, you wish you could see Dave right now, because if he looks half as hurt as you want him to be, as this silence is making him out to be, then you think you could feel vindicated instead of just angry. You realize that the urge to lash out and hurt is probably not the best one you've ever had, but at the moment, you can't bring yourself to really care. You're fucking blind. Blind and it's not your fault and you're not getting better and you have no idea why you're blind in the first place!

"Jesus christ," Dave mutters eventually. "I'm sorry, alright? I just thought that maybe..."

He sighs and shifts and you breathe in fury, breathe out frustration, slowly calm down. As your anger subsides, guilt quietly creeps in to take its place. Ugh, what is  _wrong_  with you? You shake your head. No. He didn't tell you. He didn't tell you, and he should have, and you're going to be mad at him.

“You didn’t think enough.” You make a move to leave and only end up running straight into Dave. For an instant, you feel him grip your shoulders, his breath on your face –close, surprisingly close- and there is a strangely charged silence. You tilt your head, about to ask but-

"Alright, ladies, time for school. Get in the car."

And Dave lets you go like he’s been electrocuted.

The car ride is agonizing because you’ve sufficiently alienated Dave enough that you can’t lean against him. So you shake silently until you get to the school. You can’t even barrel out of the car once it’s pulled to a stop because you’re too worried about what might happen. You could run into someone, a car, and your train of thought goes absolutely wild until you feel someone grab your hand.

“Ready?”

God, you wish you could still be furious with him but he’s the only thing grounding you. Your head is spinning with the cyclical torrent of your emotions, and you. You just want yourself to calm down, even though you know that just thinking it won’t help. You let Dave help you out of the car, grumbling to hide your nerves. The insane chatter and noise typical of school soon overwhelms you, and you are guiltily grateful for Dave’s tight grasp on your hand.

School is... school. You missed it, in an abstract sort of way, but the reality is absolutely terrifying. You can't see anything, everyone's too loud, you're missing out on at least half of the material in class because all of the teachers are writing on their blackboards and you're angry at Dave still so he won't - can't - try and talk to you or help you through any of it. There's no snarky commentary in the hallways, merely a wordless hand on your elbow that guides you unerringly through the crowds.

No one tries to talk to you. You're not sure how you feel about that. Maybe they're all tired from break? (More likely, they don't know how to talk to you now that your dad is dead and you're blind and Dave is a constant brooding presence over your shoulder, and fuck, that hurts. But at least they’re not wasting their time on you.)

But you eventually get to the last period of the day. Dave claps you awkwardly on the shoulder at the door. There is a terribly pregnant silence between the two of you, and you feel like Dave is going to say something, he is, and then-

He sighs. "See ya, Egbert," Dave says, quiet, and then he's gone, his hand disappearing from your body. You turn to face the room, your heart pounding loudly. You're not ready for this.

Someone touches your arm. You try to not startle too much, but the laugh you get means you probably failed. "Hey, new kid, come sit down already, you're making the rest of us nervous," a girl tells you, her voice teasing. Several other voices agree, probably teachers, maybe students, there are too many for you to separate, and you find yourself quickly ushered into a chair, the person’s hands clinical and impersonal and frankly, uncomfortable.

There are some scrapes against the floor (chairs being pulled into position, you’re sure), and the teacher starts talking. You’re not ashamed to admit that you space out a lot of it. You’re angry and tired, and tired of being angry and you just want to go home. (You want Dave, if you’re being honest with yourself, but you don’t feel like it right now.)

“Alright, Terezi, why don’t you go through parts of your day?” the teacher prompts, her voice chipper. “How about how your vision is coping and how your peers have been treating you?”

Someone near you snorts, and you tentatively identify her as the girl who called you ‘new kid’ earlier. “Fine, I guess. Everyone treated me like losing my sight means that I can’t hear them, but eh, their loss. You guys get me. We’re all blind here.”

And there is something about those words, or the way she laughs afterwards, that hits you the wrong way. You feel struck dumb, somehow, like the air has been stolen from you. You curl over yourself, wanting to say something but not having the words, and you wish that the teacher would skip over you.

Of course, you have no such luck. Because it’s absolutely not complete without you being put in the spotlight.

“Alright, well, John, how are you feeling about starting school again? Has your day been going well?”

You lick your lips. “Um,” you start, and your voice cracks embarrassingly. “It’s been. Okay, I guess? I mean, I’m not used to it yet, and a lot of people aren’t used to me being … blind either.” There’s something else you want to say but….

You don’t know what it is. So you let the moment pass, and shrug to signify that you’re done.

The teacher doesn’t press.

She continues talking to the rest of the group as you space out, drawing into yourself. The … idea, you suppose, about how you’re supposed to be reacting to your blindness is sitting very poorly with you, and your mind keeps circling back to it. Are you supposed to just be okay? Because you’re not okay, and maybe  _that’s_ what you really wanted to say. You’re not okay with being blind and being treated differently, but you need to learn to be okay. You jolt back into the conversation when she starts splitting all of you into groups, and you are left with the enigmatic instructions of “Sit here and talk with these two for the rest of the class, alright?”

Wordlessly, you fidget in your seat, unsure. It takes a moment for someone to speak up, familiar, and you place her, yet again, as the girl who laughed earlier.

“Alright, new kid, how are you really?”

You blink. “What?”

“You don’t actually think we buy the bullshit, right? Come on, let us know what you really feel like being blind.

"I hate it.” Your words seem to come from a long distance as you lower your voice, making sure to keep your voice down. “I absolutely hate it and everyone expects me to just be fucking fine with this and to  _adjust_  like nothing’s happened. I’m blind, for fuck’s sake, it’s different, and I hate it.”

“Hey, woah, preaching to the choir here,” the girl says, and you hear something tap, tap, before the chair next to you slides back and she sits down heavily in it. “It ain’t a cakewalk for the rest of us here, either. But you gotta suck it the fuck up. It’s not that bad. It’s actually kinda fun.”

You take a deep breath and are surprised to find yourself almost completely deflated of your frustration. “It is?”

She laughs. “Well yeah, duh. It’s a bit difficult to get used to at first, I bet, but. It’s really worth it. And I wouldn’t change it for anything. It’s me, you know?” Something taps you on the arm, and you turn towards it, confused. “Oh, the name’s Terezi, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

You almost hold out your hand to shake before you realize that you’d probably miss anyway and instead clench it in your lap. “John. Sorry, for uh, lashing out like that.”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Terezi laughs again, nudging your arm companionably. “Being blind does suck when it first happens. All of us know.”

“All of us? Who is  _us_?”

"Yeah, Sollux here is blind too, isn't that right?"

"Damn straight," says a male voice, faintly nasal, a lisp curling through his words. You jolt, but stop yourself from making too much noise in case the teacher scolds him for his language. "And unlike Tee-Zee here, I didn't exactly get the luxury of having this bullshit my entire life."

You feel warmth against your right arm as Terezi leans in and stage-whispers, "He got in an accident too, you know. Damaged his brain and now he's blind."

"Oh." You lick your lips and shrug awkwardly, hoping that you're looking in the right direction. "I'm... sorry."

"Don't be."

"What?"

Someone, Sollux probably, shifts gingerly, the denim of his jeans rasping against the plastic seats. "Becoming blind actually helped me a lot. It forced me to face a lot of problems I had, like my temper, and I cooled down because of it. Being blind sort of helped an over-stimulation problem I had too. All in all, I think I'm a better person now. Less angry all the time." He huffs out a bit of laughter. "I do miss being able to see, though. Shit’s boring without sight. Speaking of, what do you look like?"

You blink. Your appearance isn’t something you've really thought about for a while, and so the question takes you a bit aback. "Short black hair, blue eyes. I used to, well. I wear glasses. Wore glasses. Whatever. Um. My friend, Dave, tells me I'm short, but then again, I bet he's freakishly tall, so that's that. What about you two?"

Beside you, Terezi speaks up. "I have black hair. Can't remember the color of my eyes, though. I think they used to be green? Who knows. Who cares. I have kickin' red shades now, and that's what matters."

"Dark brown hair with heterochromia iridum over here. One blue eye and one brown. I was told that it was cool looking or kinda freaky, depending on the person I was talking to. Hard to tell exactly what my expression was." Sollux scuffs a foot against the floor, the drag of rubber against tile drawing your attention more in his direction. "Now I just wear red and blue lensed glasses, or at least, that's what Eff-eff" -must be a friend of his, FF- "says she got me. Totally worth it. You're not alone in the 'wearing glasses even though you're blind' thing."

A snort comes from you, involuntary and surprising, but you ... like it. Like them. They make you laugh and you. You needed that. You needed to be reminded that this isn't the end of the world, and hey, you can get a few new friends along the way.

"So, John-boy, how clean is your house?" Terezi shoves her feet against yours, and it's companionable and nice and with a sinking realization, you realize that you miss Dave a lot more than you thought earlier. And it's like a punch in the gut, how much it hurts and how badly you want his sarcasm and solely  _him_. There, with you  _right now_.

“John? Earth to John! Come on, new kid, talk to us!”

You shake yourself. Right. “Sorry. Spaced out. Uh. Not too dirty? I think?”

"Hm. You think?" Terezi scoffs. "Do you fall down or run into stuff?"

"Yeah?"

In unison, Sollux and Terezi chime, "Too cluttered." Terezi continues, though Sollux quiets after that. "You seriously need one of us to come over and fix it for you, make it all nice and pretty. And neat. Neat, mostly. Don't your parents do anything about it?"

You open your mouth, but. Your lungs feel crushed by a sickening grief, one that hasn't left in the months since the accident, only lessened. A suffocating silence chokes the room before Terezi leans in against you. "Sorry," she murmurs, her voice quiet for a change. "Sorry. How about the people you're living with. Have they done anything?"

"Make it worse? They're not neat people. But most of the things they have are soft." Except for the turntables and the futon and all of the cords tangled everywhere, and some of your doubt must show in your voice, because Sollux sighs at you.

"Tee-zee, I vote you go and deal with Jay-en's house." JN? You already warrant a nickname? That probably shouldn't make a warm glow start in your stomach, but it does. "You can still see a little bit, after all."

(You hate yourself for the pang of jealousy that sends through you, but you bite it back. It's not her fault. It's not yours.)

You tune back in as Terezi un-plasters herself from your side. "Get that, John?"

"Get what?"

"I'm going to your house this weekend to case the joint, alright?" Terezi cackles and something hits the floor once, twice. "It'll be fun. I'll get to fix everything that's wrong in your house, and I bet that it's a lot. And I get to harass your live-in family. Man, my weekend is going to be fucking awesome. Sure you don't wanna come along, Bee-man?"

Sollux sighs. "I'm rolling my eyes at you, Tee-zee. I have a thing to go to with Eff-eff. Though, I’m hoping that she doesn't bring  _him_  along again."

"You know she will."

"I don't have to like it." Sollux crosses his arms (and you feel a momentary triumph because hah, you’re beginning to figure out movements based on sounds, before feeling sick because you still can’t fucking see their expressions), growls a little in the back of his throat. “Just like I don’t have to like him.”

“You’ll never like him,” Terezi goads, her teasing comfortable and vaguely pre-school. It’s comforting in the way that everything about the way Terezi acts is comforting, because she honestly isn’t acting like there’s something wrong, either with you or with anything else, and that shouldn’t hurt but does.

Fuck, fuck, you miss Dave.

God, you can’t believe you were such a complete asshole to him.

The bell rings, startling you.

"Alright, smell you later, John." Terezi's chair scrapes back as you struggle out of your seat, casting around blindly (hah) for your backpack. Sollux makes some derogatory noise as he presumably does the same.

"From you," he says, a self-deprecating sort of humor coating his lisping words, "I just wish that wasn't so literal. You need to learn the importance of personal boundaries, Tee-zee. Catch you tomorrow, Jay-en. More bonding, I suppose."

“Now seriously, Bee-man, what _is_  your deal with that jackass?”

You follow the sounds of their arguing to the door, where the mass of people whisks their noise away and makes you too nervous to continue. Hovering awkwardly in the doorway, you wait. Something undefinable changes, and you reach out, your fingertips encountering warm fabric. You lick your lips. "Dave?"

"Sup."

Some tension you hold drops from you and you twine your fingers in his shirt, unsure of how to apologize for your behavior earlier. Dave grasps your elbow before you can figure out what to say and begins leading you through the crowd and you… decide to wait until later. There’s no way you could make yourself heard in this noise and you don’t want to stop until you’re home now that you’ve started moving.

Bro grunts at you both as you get in the car. You think it should say something that you barely even remember the car ride once you get home, focusing only on the faint pattern of Dave’s breaths as you try and figure out how to talk to him again. It’s never been this difficult before. Dave disappears almost the instant he gets you inside the house, the sounds of his sneakers fading as he heads into your Dad’s study and closes the door behind him.

The message is loud and clear.

With a sigh, you fumble your way to the couch and sit down, wishing there was something, anything you could do. You want to fix this discomfort between you, but you have no idea how, and so the evening passes in tense silence. Bro says nothing, only orders in pizza in favor of watching the two of you skirt awkwardly around each other trying to make dinner.

Dave doesn’t even leave the room for the pizza. Bro has to bring it to him.

God, the silence is killing you.

The sounds of you and Bro eating are muffled by the heavy weight of tension. You sigh, trying to break up the suffocating atmosphere, but the noise is swallowed, enveloped, destroyed. It makes you antsy, restless, and frankly, a bit annoyed. Finally, you set your plate down and turn (you think) towards Bro, because fuck, you need to talk to someone, and …

Well, Dave’s not here to talk to right now.

And you’ve never gotten much of a chance to talk to Bro.

“Hey, Bro?”

“Mm? Sup, littlest dude?”

You twist your hands together, aching to tangibly reaffirm  _something_  and hating the fact that you can’t. “Why did you move up here?”

Bro snorts. “Because Dave asked me to, and you needed it. Didn’t need much more than that. Kid needed to be up here to help his best bro, you know?”

Stifling the urge to say that you still don’t understand (he uprooted his entire  _life_  for you), you sigh and lick your lips. Shakily, you mutter, “I’m not sure if I ever did this, so I wanted to say thanks.”

There’s a deliberate pause in the noises coming from Bro’s direction. You wait, the tension killing you. A few seconds later, his voice follows, cautious. “What for? I haven’t done anything worth thanks.”

“Dude, you. You moved from Texas, with no warning, for a kid you’ve never met. For a kid Dave had never met in real life. That’s definitely something.” A stool scrapes back on the floor, followed by a few footsteps that you try to keep track of. You jolt slightly when knuckles brush against your skin, a fond tap, you think, the only sort of affectionate contact the Striders would allow themselves.

(But that’s not entirely true is it? Dave holds you all the time, stays closer than he ought to, and you miss his little touches because you at least have a constant idea of where he is.)

“Ain’t no thang,” Bro drawls, deliberately drawing out his accent. He snorts at himself, amused, before he raps you again with his knuckles. “Seriously, don’t sweat it, kid. Dave asked, it happened, we’re here. You’re like family, alright? Striders look out for their own.”

“I… that’s my point,” you attempt to explain, searching for the words you need. “I’m not one of your own. Or at least, if I am, it’s news to me. I didn’t expect anyone to come take care of me at all because I didn’t think I even… deserved to live, you know? Dad…” you swallow, rough. “Dad died. And I. Didn’t? I wasn’t too surprised when my uncle didn’t want to take care of me because I didn’t see why I should have been taken care of and-”

Hands pull your shoulders roughly, and you collide with Bro’s chest. For a few startled moments, you can’t exactly process that Bro just stopped your guilty babbling with a hug, but once you do, you relax into him.

He’s warm.

And there’s just something about how solid he is that makes you bury your face in Bro’s shoulder and cling desperately to him. You try to not think about the fact that he reminds you of your Dad right now and fail miserably, biting your lip to not start shaking.

You don’t succeed in doing that either.

“It really isn’t a big deal,” Bro rumbles, clearly uncomfortable. “I’d do it again if I had to, and you know that.”

“But you.” You shake your head, breathing into his throat, trying to explain. “It is a big deal, okay? I barely knew you or Dave. And I’m stupidly grateful that you’re here now because if you weren’t…”

He ruffles your hair with a fond huff of air. “Yeah, yeah, poor little Egbert, wouldn’t have survived, yada yada. Just let the Striders take care of you from now on, a’ight? And try to make up with Dave? He’ll be a moody little bitch for the longest time if he thinks you’re upset at him.”

You sigh and make a face against Bro’s shoulder. “He’s moody? He’s the one who decided not to-“

“Hey, none of that. He didn’t decide anything. We’re making all of this shit up, okay?” Bro sighs and shakes you gently. “The only shit we know is that your blindness isn’t something physical. They couldn’t find a reason for it to be happening medically. We’re extrapolating a lot of bull at the moment to guess. Which is why you’re in the “let’s talk about our feelings” group while I hunt around for a halfway decent therapist and doctor to get you diagnosed.”

Gnawing on your lip, you pull back and hope that you’re staring at his eyes and not somewhere-

“Little higher, dude, you’re looking at my chin.”

-Damn it.

Appropriately, you (hopefully) adjust your gaze to the proper height. “So, you guys… don’t really know what’s wrong with me?”

“Yep. And the little dude didn’t want to say anything until we knew for certain.” You can feel Bro shrug in the way his muscles move and you sigh, hating the fact that he has a point. “Didn’t want to get your hopes up, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Go talk to him. Have a feelings throw-down if you need to. Lemme know if I need to kick up some sick beats for you two, alright?”

And you snort, a farce of laughter, halfheartedly shoving Bro with your shoulder. “Dude, no, feelings raps are only for lame guys like you two. I’m not about to “throw down” with Dave! I’ll just… talk to him. Suck it up and say I’m sorry. You know.”

Bro laughs, and finally lets you go. “You could always suck something else of his, if you know what I mean.”

“God  _damn it_ , Bro!” Your laughter is more genuine this time, and you try to slug him gentle, but end up missing. Probably by a lot. But Bro catches your hand with his own and does some complicated fiddling around with it that you think is some strange, secret handshake that guys give each other. He ends with a fist bump that’s accompanied by some surprisingly dexterous beatboxing as he mumbles something to himself about “breaking it down”.

The Striders, you’ve come to realize, are a strange bunch.

You like them anyway.

You’re too amused by listening to Bro to hear anything else, so the unexpected, quiet “Hey, Egbert?” from behind you is startling, to say the least. You twitch, cock your head.

“Dave?”

“Yeah,” and this time, you feel him. Dave’s hand rests on your arm, and he turns you towards him. “I … Can we talk?”

(From behind you, Bro faux-whispers “Feelings jam” and you barely resist the urge to flip him off.)

Instead, you just say, “Yeah, sure.”

You wish you could be surprised when Dave carts you off, but you’re not. You don’t exactly want to have this conversation with anyone else around; not with how your heart seems to want to beat its way out of your chest, how nervousness is twisting your stomach sickeningly.

He leads you back to the study, and the click of the door closing resounds in the awkward silence. For a few heartbeats, it’s clear that neither of you really knows how to begin this. Dave clears his throat at the same time that you draw in a breath, and you shake your head, gesture for him to go first.

“So, sorry for how I’ve been today,” Dave starts, roughly. You tilt your head and snort, but quiet as he continues. “It’s not really the greatest, but whatever, I’m over it now, and I hope we’re cool again.”

“You haven’t talked to me all day! How can we be cool if you haven’t even talked to me?” you protest. Then you mentally kick yourself. Yeah, good job, John. You haven’t made an effort either. Dave honestly doesn’t seem to notice as he moves closer to you and grasps you, his hands firm on your shoulders.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been busy, alright?” But Dave still doesn’t explain anything as he directs you into a chair, fusses with something near you.

“Dave, what are you-”

With a sigh, Dave mutters, “Look, I just needed some time to think and make this, alright? Now shut up. And just listen.” Dave presses a finger against your lips, stopping what you were about to say, and settles a pair of headphones over your ears. You can’t. You can’t hear anything. He stays close enough to touch, which is good, because if you lost track of him, you think you might panic. His hand squeezes yours lightly. It's the only preparation you get as suddenly, at the same time you breathe in, music floods through the headphones.

It's... ambient and soft and not at all what you expect from Dave, the beats quiet and muffled while the melody carries on. It's a wordless thing that is somehow familiar, and you can't help but think that you've fallen asleep to this before. The vocals are only a quiet, slightly hoarse hum. Falling up, down, a lilting sort of melody that reminds you so much of a time that you stayed awake to watch the sun rise when you were younger. Black fading to blue, delicate golden and pink tendrils slowly snaking their way across the sky, lighting up the clouds they brush against. And then the orange-red sun peaked its barest slivers over the horizon, growing until you couldn't look at it anymore.

You don't even realize that you're crying until Dave wipes your face for you.

The headphones slide off as you bury your face against his neck, Dave's arms coming up around you as he holds you close. You really do hate this, but god, he reminded you of color and you miss it so bad. You want to see him, and it's only once Dave starts making soft shushing noises that you notice you're saying all of this out loud, the words sounding torn from your throat.

"I'm sorry!" you cry, clinging to Dave. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just-"

"Hate this," he says quietly, petting your head with a strange kind of tenderness. "I know."

And so you shiver into the damp air between his throat and your mouth, breathing heavily as tears slide down your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I was such a dick and I didn't mean to be and I, I don't want to be so mad at you! You moved to be here with me and I feel awful and I-"

"Shh shh." Dave rocks you back and forth and you squeeze your eyes shut (for all the difference it makes). "It's alright. You got a little heated and we both snapped. Whatever. It's all in the past now. We're cool now, right?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome."

You have no idea how long you end up sitting there, cradled in his arms, and you can't really bring yourself to care because everything is alright right now. Dave is still your best friend. He's still here for you. Sure, you still can't see, but that honestly doesn't seem to matter quite as much for once. Dave's here, and you didn't run him off.

The moment when you fall asleep on Dave is lost, but the next thing you know, you're in bed and there's a hand against your cheek.  _'Dad?'_ you think for an awful, disorienting moment. Then you remember and have to clench your eyes tightly shut, bite back the wave of sadness. You start to clear your throat but-

-something soft touches your forehead, followed by an exhalation that brushes against all of the hair on your face, ruffling them in its wake. You want to move, but.

But some part of you hushes the rest and remains still.

Dave’s face rests against yours, his nose nuzzling against your cheek. His breath warms your skin, and you shiver, try to quell it before Dave notices, try to silence your heartbeat because it is pounding too hard, too much, surely Dave is going to  _hear_  it. There’s another gust of breath and then Dave just.

Sits up. Squeezes your shoulder gently.

Leaves.

You’re confused and entirely adrift as Dave closes the door behind him, listening to the soft thuds of his footsteps travel down the stairs.

You wish you knew exactly what Dave was thinking. It’s a pipe dream, you know. For an instant there, it almost felt like… a kiss? But no, that probably wasn’t it. Dave was… just worried, most likely. The comfort of knowing that Dave is there for you settles the anxious (unbelieving) twist under your sternum, and you resign yourself to an even more intrinsic sort of darkness as sleep pulls you under again.

That one particular spot on your forehead remains warm.


	5. Your Tide Rushes Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, um. I'm really sorry that it's been almost a year since this has updated! I can honestly tell you that I didn't actually realize that until... like, two weeks ago. At which point I started working on this frantically. The problem was, I knew exactly what I was doing for the last four chapters, and I knew how I wanted it to end, but I had no idea how to get it there. And right now, I'm still working on the last chapter, but this is almost done. You won't have to wait nearly as long for the resolution of this story, I promise. Love you all so so sooooo much!

“Are you ready for this?”

You wrinkle your nose, and part of you is tempted to just go ahead and shake your head and tell Terezi, no, no you are not ready for this, but she’s not very likely to listen to you regardless of what you do so. Instead of trying to argue with her, you square your shoulders. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

“Woo! House inspection party underway!”

It’s the end of your first week back at school. You’re glad for the weekend, exhausted in a way you thought you had forgotten. You honestly don’t really want Terezi poking around your house (you just want to sleep), but she and Sollux had pestered you until it was just easier to let them do what they wanted. And you suppose you can’t argue too much with being able to find your way around a little easier.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Dave grumbles beside you, and you pat him on the arm comfortingly. “John, is this really necessary?”

“Do you want me running into everything if I have to take a leak at night? Or waking you up just so you can lead me to the bathroom? No? I didn’t think so. Terezi can help make sure that I’m not about to injure myself. I mean, I’ve been lucky so far, but that can’t last.”

He sighs heavily. “I suppose that’s worth it.”

“You _suppose_?”

“Eh, call it my heroic intentions. But I don’t know, John. I don’t know this chick. I don’t-“

You flick him on the arm, frowning. “Dave, it’s not even your house. Calm the fuck down, she’s not going to ransack anything with Bro watching over her.”

“Exactly,” Terezi pipes up, and you hear a plastic-sounding _whack_ as she hits something (probably Dave) with her cane. “Make your tits calm. I’m here to help, not sabotage anything, you mistrusting little shit.”

You sigh and maneuver yourself over to the staircase. You already know that you’re going to be no use to anyone during the cleaning spree, so you might as well get comfortable.

“Alright, we’ll start over here and clear some things up. John needs to have an easily accessible, clear walkway at all times. None of this clutter-junk, got it? God, you guys hoard a lot, don’t you? Did you have a professional maid service in Texas?” Terezi, from the sound of her voice, is moving around the living room, moving things to the side as she starts pointing out whatever needs to be changed.

“So how’d you become blind?” Dave interrupts, his voice hard and unkind. You wish you could see just so you could smack him right across the face. You settle for hissing his name, but Terezi stops you with a hand on your arm. You blink. You hadn’t thought she was so close by.

“I have Stargardt’s disease. It’s a degenerative eye condition, so I’m slowly losing the ability to see as I get older. I’m currently considered legally blind, and I can’t really see anything with definition. The red glasses are actually to help me see slightly better and to protect my eyes, unlike yours, cool kid.”

“Can’t you get contacts or something like that?”

“Can’t you ever pull your foot out of your mouth? No? Didn’t think so,” she snipes back immediately, mimicking you from earlier, and you… think she’s having a good time, but with Terezi, it’s always difficult to say. “Contacts don’t fix everything.” She pauses. You bite back a grin at her saccharine sweet voice when she continues. “John mentioned that you’d try to scare me off, but I didn’t think you’d do it by being an asshole.”

There’s an awkward quiet before Dave sighs. “Well, I have the unique talent of never shutting up, so me being completely unbearable while I systematically offend everyone in a ten-mile radius by breathing at them wrong isn’t a surprise. Can we ignore everything I just said? I like to pretend that I’m sometimes not a complete disaster.”

“Yeah, he babbles when he gets nervous,” Bro chimes in, and you twitch. Fuck him and his ability to move around _way_ too quietly. It’s just not fair. “And when he’s happy. Or sad. Really, he just talks all the time. Can’t get the little shit to shut up for the life of me.”

Terezi laughs. “Good. That makes it easier to keep track of him. You, on the other hand, need work. I bet you scare John every time you pop up somewhere. And while that’s hilarious, it’s also not really safe for him.”

You scowl, embarrassment squirming around in your stomach. “Shut up, Terezi. I’ve gotten better at figuring out where he is.”

“Not good enough,” she sing-songs. “Come on, guys. Let’s make this place safe for him. Move all of this shit off the floor. Jesus Christ, do none of you ever do laundry? That’s got to change! I wanna see you hustle, Strider!”

“So what, you’re a football coach now, Terezi? This wasn’t in my contract,” Dave bitches good-naturedly, but you hear him move into the living room regardless. 

Somewhere in the ensuing mess of an argument, you slip away, managing to climb up the stairs without either anyone noticing or caring enough stop you. It’s chaos down there. So much noise, and you feel more helpless than usual, sitting there like the eye of a storm, hand still at your sides when you should be able to dig in a help.

So instead, you retreat up to the one place that’s remained mostly the same. As you shuffle into your room, detritus knocks against your feet, things like books and papers and clothes shifting as you push past them. And it makes you furious, because your room, of all places, should be neat, had been neat.

You move before you think it through.

You kick and thrash. You don’t know what you grab, but you throw it somewhere, and hearing it hit with a heavy impact makes you feel better. So you do it again. Grab and throw. You are heaving in breath, and it tastes dry and it sticks to the back of your throat. Burns the top of your lungs. You kick something, throw something else, and fuck, you don’t even know what you’re doing! You can’t see to even know what you’re hurting.

You reach down and feel-

Nothing.

Except tired, maybe.

Raw and dropped suddenly from your furious rage, you let yourself curl down, down, until you are a ball on the floor. Everything’s too loud. Your breathing, the hum of air conditioning, the vague and amorphous noises of cleaning from down stairs. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears.

You think, distantly, that you might be panicking.

You force yourself to breathe, in and out, until the world seems more solid around you, and the pins and needles on your skin recede.

Step.

Step.

Of fucking course. You can’t be left alone for even a few minutes.

Pause.

Your door closes, and you hear some more shuffling steps before your bed squeaks. “Talk to me, kid,” Terezi says, her voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. “What’s up?”

You push yourself upright, your previous position too-vulnerable and uncomfortable for this conversation. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to be downstairs with all of that happening. You know? It wasn’t like I was helping very much. So I just felt awkward.”

She hums, and you can’t help your wince. She so knows you’re lying. “You know, I had to arm-wrestle Dave for the privilege of coming up here and talking to you first,” she says idly. “And as much as I enjoyed winning that, I’d like to think you take me seriously enough to not bother lying.”

And the gauntlet is thrown.

“So tell it to me straight. What’s up?”

You let the silence settle between you for a moment while you gather your thoughts. You breathe in just to feel the drag of fabric against your sides. “Is it bad that I don’t want to get used to this?” you ask quietly, knees pulled up to your chest. “Being blind, I mean? I don’t want people to do things or change things just for me. Is that so wrong of me?”

“Well, yes. You have to accept it,” she tells you. “Your blindness is something that happened to you, and of course it makes everything different. Wouldn’t be life-changing if it didn’t. But now you have to roll with the punches and give life the middle finger, because you’re not going to let this keep you down! Being blind doesn’t mean your life is over.”

Embarrassed, you duck your head. “Right. Sorry.”

“Now.” You hear a rustle of fabric from your bed. “What’s the story here? They’re not your family, and I know you were at my school before this. What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You have to,” she says plainly. “You have to talk about it. If you don’t, it starts killing you. And you don't have a therapist yet..." Terezi trails off, leaving you enough time to contradict her before she continues with, “I don't know who you _can_ talk to, but I know that the Striders are a little too close to the issue. Maybe there's someone else?”

Clenching your jaw, you grit out, “I don't want to talk about it, Terezi.”

She lets out a soft half-laugh. “Yeah, okay, Egbert. I understand why, I guess.” You hear her shift on your bed. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here.”

You are silent for a while, focused on the rough catch of denim beneath the pads of your fingers, on the quiet whisper of breath from Terezi over the hard rush that is your heartbeat in your ears. Slowly, you admit to yourself that she's right. Not telling anyone, not talking to anyone about what you're going through... it isn't doing you any favors, really. And for the first time, you almost want to. It's an odd feeling. You are still nervous, still made nauseous by the thought of reliving the accident in any way you have to, but the want to speak is a physical pressure against your tongue.

Terezi isn't close to you. Not the way Dave is, or Rose or Jade. Not the way any of them are, and that makes this easier, somehow. You take a deep breath. Release. “I was in a car crash. About four months ago.” You swirl your fingertips against your calves, drop them to the carpet. “My… My dad died. And I… well, you know.”

“Say it, John. You went blind. Stop avoiding the topic. Not saying it doesn’t make it less real.”

“Yeah, I lost my sight, okay?” you snap. “I stopped being able to see, and my uncle offered to take care of me. Only his idea of taking care of me was leaving me in an empty house and dropping off groceries every week, because, you know, a blind kid can totally handle himself on his own, right?” And now you’re angry about it, now you’re able to be angry about how your uncle behaved, condescending asshole, and you let the fury carry the tide of your words further. “So I get a phone call out of the blue one day. And I find out that it’s been a month since my online friends have heard anything from me, so they got worried enough to track down a phone number.”

Your chest is heaving for breath, and you close your eyes to stop their stinging. “Three days later, there’s a knock on my door, and Dave's on the other side. Dave moved. Like it was nothing for him to pick up his life and his brother’s life and just. Come here. No hesitation. They’ve been here ever since.

“And that's great! Dave and Bro have been...” You gesture, losing track of your words for a second. “I like them being here. But I don't like why. I don't like feeling like this. I mean, I don’t even know what my own best friend’s face looks like! I can tell you what he smells like and all sorts of things about his voice, but I couldn’t tell you anything about his appearance. I can’t find my way around my house or school without someone leading me. I just feel sort of helpless.”

A hand clasps your shoulder and you look up reflexively. Your hand comes up to touch Terezi’s. “So we make sure you don’t feel like that again. But you have to come to grips with one thing, John. You’re blind, and you might always be that way. So you have to own it.” There’s a slight pause before she chuckles wickedly. “And then you get people to do things for you because they feel bad. Like being blind makes you less of a person. Hah!”

You smile, hang your head slightly in apology. “God, I’m being a dick about this, aren’t I.”

“Oh, so you finally noticed? There’s hope for you yet. Now!” Terezi squeezes your shoulder, and you feel the warm press of her against your side. “Let’s get your room in shape. Just me and you so you don’t have to worry about the Sirs Strider getting into your unmentionables. They should be busy downstairs for a while.”

“Oh god, yeah, that’s a good idea. I definitely don’t want Bro in my underwear drawer.”

* * *

 

It works, which is the weirdest thing. After that first week, everything seems to actually be getting better.

You’re able to commiserate with people about the loss of one of your senses. You become able to say that you are blind without having to tiptoe around the subject, and there is something marvelous in that. Freeing, almost. Like the fact that you weren’t blind and now are isn’t your only defining characteristic.

(On an unrelated note, you are still the master of pranks. It doesn’t take sight to saran-wrap a toilet, though it does if you want to actually _complete_ a high-five instead of smacking Dave in the face. Though hitting him was kind of a two-for-one prank extravaganza, you suppose.)

Dave and Terezi, after their initial rocky start, get along like a house on fire. They’re both too harsh with each other, but it seems to work for them anyway. You hear them laughing more often than not. It’s nice to have someone else to help you needle Dave.

The more the merrier, you think!

And through it all, the air gets crisper, the turn of drying leaves beginning to hang in the air. You don’t think about Halloween without your dad. You don’t talk about it at all, but Dave sneaks into your bedroom that night, and you're not above being quietly grateful. You curl into him, and you both pretend that you aren’t desperately clinging to Dave.

You begin to think that you can make it through this.

* * *

 

“Alright, see you after class, John.”

You lift your hand to waggle your fingers at Dave mockingly, smiling. “Bye, Dave. Have fun sweating in gym.”

“You know it,” Dave says wryly. A warm pressure pats on your shoulder briefly before you hear him turn towards the door. “Later!” And the sounds of the school around you consume Dave’s familiar footsteps. You turn your attention to your teacher, mentally letting out a relieved breath when she announces that today is a group-chat day. Which means that today, you just have to put up with Terezi and Sollux’s particular brands of madness.

So of course, Terezi just opens up the conversation like you’re going on trial.

“Wow, Dave sure is acting funny, wouldn’t you say, John?”

“Yeah, hello to you too, Terezi,” you say, over-animated and chipper. “How are you doing? Good? Oh, me too! How are you going to spend your weekend?” Terezi tries to speak, and you bull over her the way she normally does to you. “Hm. Terrorizing your neighborhood again, you rabblerouser you.”

“John. Answer the question.”

Ah, Terezi. Always out for blood. You roll your eyes. “If he's acting any stranger than normal, no, I haven't noticed it. I mean, he's peculiar, but he's always been that way.”

“Ugh, not what I was talking about at all.”

“Then what in the world were you talking about? Dave's honestly not acting any different.” You scrunch your face up, feeling the dig of your glasses as they follow the curve of your nose. “I think you're just making things up now.”

She smacks you in the thigh. “John. I'm trying to hint that Dave has feelings for you. Thanks for being completely clueless.”

“Psh, no he doesn’t.”

“Yeah, he does,” Terezi argues, and she shifts in her seat, presumably towards Sollux. “Come on, back me up here, beeman.”

“Don’t drag me into your petty romantic-pandering squabbles, Tee-zee.” You smile triumphantly. The smile slides off a moment later when Sollux continues absently. “But yeah, Dee-vee has the hots for you.”

You sputter. “What? What the hell makes you think that?”

“How soft his voice is when he talks to you, how close he always sits to you, how attentive to anything you might need he is,” Sollux lists off. “Oh, and the fact that I'm pretty sure he writes terrible rap poetry about how much he wants to kiss you on the mouth and hold your hand.”

Terezi cackles. “Yeah, that sounds like something he'd do. He’s a total sap.”

“Guys, that’s not nice.” You pause, tilt your head to the side, your brows furrowing. “Does he really? Why didn’t you just mention that first?”

“Too easy that way.”

“You know I don’t believe you.”

“That's because you're a suspicious and untrusting individual.”

“Or maybe it's because you're full of shit, Terezi.”

The door opens before Terezi has a chance to respond, and you feel the shift of attention as everyone focuses on identifying the person entering the room. They scuff their shoes against the floor as they walk, and hail the teacher with a quiet word-

Hm.

What in the world is Dave doing back here?

Your question is answered a moment later, when Dave comes up to your chair. “Hey, John, sorry, I totally forgot that today’s a lazy day in gym, because Coach Nitram’s off doing… Fuck, I don’t even know what.” He rustles around the bag by your feet, and his voice is quiet and warm and focused entirely on you. And you notice. After that conversation with Terezi and Sollux….

...Shit.

“Um,” you start after a few seconds of oddly tense silence. “Yeah, no problem. What are you getting?”

“Sketchbook and camera. If I’m going to be bored, I’m going to at least get something out of it.” There’s a light touch at your forehead, and okay, you could really get used to hearing the buried tenderness threaded through his voice, if that's what it really is. Is your face getting warm? You think your face is getting warm. “Bye, John.”

You mentally shake yourself and quickly force a smile on your face. “Bye, Dave.”

And then Dave leaves, his shoes scuffing on the floor on his way out. There’s a moment of quiet from the three of you.

“Holy shit, his voice gets really weird when he talks to me,” you say numbly.

Smug, Terezi pats your leg. “Yeah, it really, really does. Glad you finally noticed.”

You lean forward, bracing your arms on your knees. “Holy shit. Okay. Well. What do I do about it?”

Terezi makes a thoughtful noise. “Do you have anything you can do, talent wise? And no, magic doesn't count and neither do pranks. You need to actually impress people, not cover them in pie.”

“But that's a classic!” You scrunch up your nose and keep talking before Terezi can snipe at you any more. “I can play piano? Or, I used to anyway. Can’t anymore, since I can’t read music. What does that-”

“Sure you can. You don’t have to see the music in order to play. Mozart was able to do it without hearing!”

“That was Beethoven,” you sigh.

“Whatever,” Terezi says, blowing you off. Sollux snorts, and there's a thin _whack_ as Terezi smacks him. “Give yourself a hobby to woo people, John. Being good at stuff is the best way to entice them, and you need to let Dave know you’re interested.”

“Tee-zee, you are just full of shit. You know that, right?” A long-suffering, dramatic sigh comes from Sollux and he pats you on the knee. “Listen to me instead of her. Wooing people does take a hobby, but it's more than just that. It's chemistry too. I say that you don't need to worry.”

You tilt your head. “I don't really need to woo... oh whatever. What’s your hobby then? To uh. Woo. Anyone, I guess.”

Terezi groans quietly, but that’s overridden by Sollux’s suddenly more animated voice. “Well, I don’t really do anything to try to win anyone over, but I write computer programs. Anything from custom video games to complex calculators.”

“Wait, how do you code if you can’t see the computer screen?”

“I have my ways. Braille keyboard. Reading software. A friend who also knows how to code. Sort of.” Sollux pauses, and you can’t help grinning at his fondly irritated tone as he continues what he’s saying. “Well, he tries, anyway. It’s the thought and the yelling that count.”

“What are you even working on?” you ask, curious.

Sollux sighs, and his voice is wry when he continues. “Right now, it’s a complex algorithm meant to predict the viability and sustainability of potential romantic partners based on their personalities, likes, interest, and quirks. It’s also all his idea.”

“Does it work?”

He laughs, the sound short and nasal, and his lisp is more pronounced as he speaks. “ _Fuck_ no, it doesn’t! It’s all just a bunch of bullshit. It randomizes a couple of words and phrases in pre-packaged scenarios, spews out a made-up compatibility percentage, and that’s it. Kay-kay likes it though. It justifies his pathetic lack of a romantic life.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, I rigged it to show him the worst possible outcomes anytime he inputs his own name into it. He’s always too nervous about the predictions to give the relationship a shot after that.”

You frown. “That seems... really mean, Sollux. What if he actually likes the person?”

“If he did, he wouldn’t let a stupid, rigged program stop him,” Sollux sniffs, proud. “Besides, I have to actually like the person too. It’s not just his choice to make, especially since he has terrible taste in the people he wants to date. Sorry, Tee-zee.”

“Nothing wrong with telling the truth,” she says blithely.

But you hear the tightness in her voice.

You decide not to ask.

It’s a good thing you don’t. The door opens again, and you blink slowly, registering the metallic tap-clicks of someone in high heels heading for the teacher's desk. After a murmured exchange, there are footsteps from the side, and your conversation dwindles as the person stops by your chair. “John?” a woman asks.

“Yeah?”

A piece of paper (pieces, your mind supplies as you feels the folds) is pressed into your hands. You frown, tracing the edges of the paper in your hands. “What’s this?”

“A recommendation list of therapists in the area. We’ve determined that you need to see a trauma specialist, and your guardian asked us to help find one. This has some information about all the ones we could find with high recommendations.” You can almost hear the pleased smile she must have on her face. “Just give these to him, and hopefully we’ll get this all figured out soon!”

“...Yeah.” You realize that you’ve been worrying the edge of the papers restlessly. You force your hands to relax, and you smooth out the papers, the folds crinkling gently as you work them flat. “Yeah, I will.”

“Good. Have a good day!” And the clicks of her heels fade back into the low background noise typical of the classroom. The door opens.

Closes.

“You okay, John?” Terezi asks, her voice subdued.

You tilt your head in her direction, and you... You feel lightheaded, like your body has gone hot and cold all at once, and you try to force yourself to think, to calm down your racing and excited heart. “It doesn’t,” you start before shaking your head. “I don’t... know if this is actually happening. Is that right? That this doesn’t feel real?” You thread your fingers together, squeeze, release, squeeze again just for the tendon-creaking ache it induces.

“Take the chance,” Sollux says quietly. “If you have a chance to get your sight back, you should try as hard as you can.”

You don’t have anything to say to that. It seems like that’s alright, though. Sollux and Terezi press in close, long, comforting lines of contact along your sides, silent until the bell rings.

You are quiet on the ride home, and you know it worries Dave because he hasn’t shut up since you met him in the classroom, his words twining and long-winded, all while you can hear the buried concern at the back of his voice. In direct contrast, Bro has only grunted at you. He probably (definitely) knows what’s going on. Paper crinkles in your hands as you fight to smooth the recommendations list, its previous smooth surface becoming soft and wrinkled, crumpling easily over and over again. 

When your muted behavior lasts through dinner, even Dave’s normally endless rambling dries up. The quiet holds for a few moments. Then a chair scrapes along the floor as Bro stands and leaves the room. You sigh, reach out to touch the papers again-

-wait.

Where did they go?

They were right next to you before.... You swallow and return your hand to your side. Bro must have taken them. He’s most likely reading over the list and setting up an appointment. Which is good! The sooner you get this taken care of, the better. You think.

Dave, clearly fed up with waiting for you to talk to him, asks, “John? What were those-”

“Nothing,” you say. You wince a moment later at how harsh your voice is, and try to soften it as you continue.. “A list. Bro needed it.”

“But what is it?”

“It's... it's just a list of therapists. We’re going to try and see if they can…” You gesture vaguely at your eyes. Dave makes a quiet noise, and you try to smile. “Sorry. I'm not sure if I'm excited or...”

“Or…?”

“...” You shake your head. “Nothing. Come on, let’s head up to my room. We have homework to work on.”

And so you put it out of your mind until the long hours of the night. The time you spend with Dave is easy now that you’re talking again, and for now, you chose to take comfort in how warmly he speaks to you, how fondly teasing he is. Eventually, you get done. Dave heads off to his bed for the night, and you curl under your blankets, try to get some sleep.

Something down the hallway creaks. You blink, curious and sleepily disgruntled. The door opens, and you sit up, head cocked to hear better. Fabric slides and the doorframe creaks in such a particular way, like someone is leaning up against it. You breathe in, and yep, there is the barest waft of cologne and body wash, spicy and warm and not at all how Dave smells. “Hey, Bro.”

“Hey, kid. You alright? Thought you might be like the little dude and be out for the count right now.”

You shake your head. “Not quite yet. What’s up?”

“You have an appointment,” he says, and your heart stutters. “Doctor Serket. Best one on that list.”

“When?”

“Next week, Wednesday evening.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then you feel the bed shift as he sits down, a warm hand ruffling your hair. “You okay?”

You smile, and you know the expression is slightly sickly but you hold it anyway. “I’ll be fine, but only if I get some sleep. Night, Bro.”

“Night, John.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You swallow and nod to the empty room. Excitement and dread skitter across your skin in pulsating waves, and you breathe in, out.

(Sleep doesn’t come easily. You didn’t think it would.)

* * *

 

Terezi and Sollux, other than making sure that you do have an appointment set up, don’t bring up the list again. For the two of them, it’s surprisingly tactful. So of course, it drive you insane instead of comforting you. 

As a bonus, though, Dave seems to be even more attentive, hovering around you, always close enough to touch. He doesn’t ask about the appointment either, but it’s pretty clear that Bro told him what was going on, and you’re grateful that you don’t have to explain it all again. Dave takes to sleeping on an air mattress on your floor, uninvited and unexplained. You can’t bring yourself to let him know how comforting it is just to hear him breathing when you wake up. The soft noise centers you, and it makes the world seem somehow less vast and boundless than usual.

“What happens if this works?” you ask Saturday night to the heavy darkness, your voice oddly loud. Rustling fills the room as Dave shifts. The silence afterwards holds for a while. You count your exhales, Dave’s, and it’s intimate in a way you can’t explain.

“John, you’ve wanted your eyesight back for months now. Why the fuck are you worry about _that_ now?”

Stung, you bite out, “Wow, shut up, Dave. Maybe everything’s just happening too quickly, ever thought of that?” and you roll over, hike your blankets up over your shoulder. The room is quiet except for the sound of the two of you breathing and now you hate it. It’s all of the distance between you and none of the closeness.. You wish squeezing your eyes shut against it would actually do something, but it doesn’t. At least the feeling of your eyelids pressed together is familiar.

“Look, I didn’t-. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, okay? I just… Fuck, I don’t know. I thought this would make you happy, not… whatever you’re feeling right now.”

Voice small, you admit, “I thought it would too, but I’m really just scared instead.”

Dave shifts, and you imagine him curling up deeper under his blankets. But you hear more rustling. Then a footstep, and another. The mattress dips, warm spreading along the blankets. You try to not lean back into it, and you fail when you scoot just the tiniest bit closer.

“Hey, you don’t have to be scared, you know.”

You shake your head sharply, gnawing on the inside of your lip. “That’s real easy for you to say, Dave. I think I’m allowed to be a little scared of all of this. I mean, come on, I’ve been blind for what, six months now? I never thought… What if there is something they can’t fix? Or worse, something they can but the therapy or whatever doesn’t work?”

“Then at least we know for sure. Look, the doctors you went to before never found anything physically wrong with you. So if our next guess is that it’s something mental, you at least have to try, right?”

You don’t know how to explain the choking, anxious fear clawing at your throat. “Look, I know I don’t _have_ to be scared. I just _am_.”

Dave sighs and moves. Your blanket gets pulled off of your shoulders (which prompts a whine from you because hello, cold) and your back is suddenly lit up with warmth. Dave's knees tuck up behind yours. Exhaling quietly, you slowly let yourself relax back into him. His voice vibrating up your spine, Dave murmurs, “Alright, then. You don't have to talk to me. Just. Know that you can, if you want to.”

“Have you been talking to Rose again?” you ask suspiciously, and Dave’s short laugh is a shiveringly warm puff of air against your neck. You squirm at the feeling. Dave, probably thinking he’s being helpful, lifts his arm, and you take the chance to roll over. Your nose bumps against his at first, and you shift backwards until you can only feel his breath over your face. You think that's far enough back. “What is it with people and trying to get me to talk about my feelings, anyway?”

“Maybe because you don't really talk about them?” Dave answers after a moment, tone strangely choked. A hand smooths over the back of your head. “Don't worry about it, John. Let's just go to sleep for now.”

You press your forehead against his collarbone and try to relax. Dave's arm is comfortingly heavy where it's resting on you, and the reassuring warmth of another person's body near you sinks into your muscles, allowing you to slowly ease up. Your tension bleeds out of you in spurts, and you tuck yourself closer to Dave.

Sleep overtakes you not too long afterwards.

* * *

 

You are on pins and needles for the next week.

You can't believe you're doing this. The waiting is interminable, and Wednesday seems too far away and way too close at the same time, a date that doesn't come fast enough and rushes towards you. You leave school at lunch time on that day, Dave hovering close enough for you to feel him. Which, fuck, you're grateful for.

You need him to be within easy arm's reach.

The clinic, like every medical building, smells strongly of antiseptic and cold, the air itself brittle and clean as it burns down the back of your throat. Bro checks you in at the front desk as Dave leads you to a seat. You sit, cross your legs. Uncross them. Fidget with the edge of your hoodie as your heart begins an insistent rhythm under your skin. You breathe in.

“Dave?”

He’s holding your hand before you even have to ask. You let out a shuddering sigh, squeeze his hand gently. “I can do this, right?” and you hate how tremulous your voice is, but fuck it, you can’t be expected to always have it together. And you’re going to be in that room alone, hoping that somewhere in there, you’ll be able to reconnect the right mental wires.

“John,” Dave says gently. “I know you can do this. You got this all under control. Shit’s chill. You’re like James Bond, okay, maybe shaken, but not stirred, you feel me? You’re gonna waltz in there, flash that gorgeous smile of yours, and then you’re going to talk about some shit that’ll probably hurt, but it’ll make you feel better. Yeah that's the smile, only try not ducking your head, it diminishes the radiance.” Fingers brush against your cheek, and you turn your face towards them. “You have this shit.”

You smile again. “Dave, I think you’re actually more nervous than I am.”

“Me? Nervous? Pshaw.”

You laugh, and you think you’re starting to calm down. Dave’s voice is shaking, and you can feel his pulse in his wrist, thready and too-fast. You feel like you’re about to throw up, but. Somehow, you know it’ll be worth it.

“I wish you could come in with me,” you admit.

Dave lets out a heavy sigh, squeezes your hand. “Me too.”

You both fall silent after that. To pass the time, you focus on listening to everything around you. The waiting room is stuffy and quiet in the way waiting rooms always are, oddly pressurized and sterile. Flat. You can hear the odd shift from Dave, a rustle of papers from… someone else who must be waiting too. A low hum of electronics and a farther, distant rumble of air conditioning fill the empty spaces between the noises made by the other occupants of the room.

You sigh, adding what little you can to break the tense atmosphere.

The door opens.

“John Egbert?”

You jolt, stand, and there’s Dave’s hand at your elbow, and you can do this. You can do this. The more you say it, the more it has to be true. Carefully, you follow Dave’s lead until someone unfamiliar takes your hand.

(You don’t try to hold onto Dave for as long as possible.)

The sound you were growing accustomed to morphs around you as you continue walking, and you’re directed to sit down. There’s smooth, plush fabric under your hands. A couch, you think. You’re probably in the office now.

A quiet voice comes from your right.

“Hello, John. My name is Doctor Serket, but feel free to call me Aranea. How are you doing today? What can I do for you?”

You take a deep breath. “Well, that’s actually, uh. What I’m here to talk about. I’m hoping you can help me see again.”

“I’m hoping I can too. Why don’t you start at the beginning, when you lost your sight, and I’ll ask questions as I need to?”

Closing your eyes, you clench your hands in your lap and you begin.

“So, sometime in May…”


	6. soon it's gonna change in a new direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is February, and the weather is beginning to change. You can smell it on the air, feel it in the tense knot under your sternum, because something needs to change and you just have to keep worrying at the feeling until you figure out what that something is.
> 
> It is February, and you still cannot see.
> 
> You wonder what it means when your blindness isn’t the first change you think of.

“I’ll see you next week, John.”

You smile, hand on the doorknob and head tilted back to project your voice back to Dr. Serket. “Yeah. See you then, Dr. Serket.” There’s a warm hand on your elbow almost before you’re done speaking, and you turn towards Dave. “Hey there.”

“Ready to go home?” he asks, and you roll your eyes.

“No, I’d like to stay here in this cold office forever. Let’s get going.” And Dave laughs under his breath, a quiet huff of noise that brings a smile to your face as he starts walking. You reach over to curl your fingers around his own, testing the gentle pressure they exert to lead you. “How was the wait today?”

You can feel the shift of Dave shrugging down in how his grip adjusts on you. “Eh, could’ve been worse. I brought my MP3 player and camera today, so I at least have some developing to look forward to when we get home. Got some interesting shots.”

There’s a muted tapping noise, and door squeaks open. As always, you brace yourself for the sudden, enveloping rush of sound from outside as you walk out to the parking lot. It takes a few seconds for you to reorient yourself. Dave’s hand is steady on your elbow. Carefully, you take in a few breaths and force yourself to relax, to pinpoint where you are by the echoes around you, by the cadence and tempo of Dave’s conversation and footsteps.

He pulls you to a stop, and you feel behind yourself to find the bench you and Dave always sit on while you’re waiting for Bro after these counseling sessions. Silence falls between you.

“Rough session?” he asks after a long moment, when you’re busy listening to a couple passing by talking about what they’re getting for dinner. Startled, you twitch, then nod.

“Yeah, we… It was all about the accident today. She’s still trying to pinpoint exactly what it is that made me…” and you gesture at your eyes, swallow, say it anyway, “go blind. Obviously, there hasn’t been… a lot of success yet.”

Street noise swells around you as Dave turns that over in his head. “Seems legit,” he eventually says, knocking his knee into yours.

“You are so emotionally supportive, Dave.” You ignore his quiet murmur of “I know, right?” in favor of talking over him, loudly. “When is Bro getting here anyway? I’m getting tired of waiting.”

You listen to Dave tapping at what is most likely his phone as he grumbles good-naturedly under his breath. “Says he’ll be here in a few minutes. He’s stuck at a light not too far from here,” Dave finally answers. “But hey, I’m glad everything’s still going well in therapy.”

Quietly, you tuck your hands under your thighs, hoping Bro will show up soon. “Same here,” you admit.

It is February, and the weather is beginning to change. You can smell it on the air, feel it in the tense knot under your sternum, because something needs to change and you just have to keep worrying at the feeling until you figure out what that something is.

It is February, and you still cannot see.

You wonder what it means when your blindness isn’t the first change you think of.

* * *

 

Here is what definitely needs to change:

Dave sneaking off and disappearing for hours with no warning. You’re getting real tired of searching for him whenever he pulls some vanishing act or the other, though you tend to get really oddly personalized gifts whenever he does.

You’re about to give up on today’s game of “where the fuck is Dave Strider,” when you hear his voice coming from the bathroom down the hall from your room.

You creep down to the door, figuring, well, shit, you might as well, now that you’ve gone this far. Should be entertaining to figure out what the hell he’s up to anyway.

“So, uh, I managed to score tickets to some concert this weekend. Wanna go?”

You cock your head, trying to ignore the angry twist in your chest. He’s asking someone out? He’s been slinking around the house and avoiding everyone because he’s calling someone to take them to a concert? Lame. You think he should at least do it in the living room so Bro can shout encouragement at him. You hand is on the doorknob, about to push the door open before Dave speaks again.

You pause, curious.

“I got these tickets to a fucking amazin- aw, fuck no, Dave, jesus, just no.” He sighs roughly, the sound echoing in the bathroom. “Fuck, that is not how you do it. Just. Deep breaths. In, and out. And…”

(Snorting quietly, you shake your head. What the hell is he doing? The more you listen, then more you’re convinced that he actually isn’t talking to anyone other than himself.)

“There’s a concert this weekend. I got tickets for it, if you’d like to…” Three sharp taps of nails against countertop, and a thud as you hear Dave kick the cabinet door. “Yeah, okay. Okay. Dave just isn’t going to ask anyone out. Ever. This is an embarrassment to the human race and the Strider name, jesus. Trial run over. Time to crawl back into the abyss and pretend this never happened because it’s not going to happen because I am the biggest and most awkward sonofabitch ever.”

At that, you decide the moment is ripe and push the door open. “Well yeah, that much is true.”

“ _Oh shit_ , uh.” Dave’s nervous swallow is clearly audible. You smile in his direction, amused. “Hey, John. How’s it hanging?”

You pretend to think about it before you cross your arms, leaning slowly against the doorframe, making sure that your weight is solidly placed against it the whole time. “Oh, you know. I’m doing just fine except for this funny thing where my best friend disappears for a few hours to pretend to ask someone out in the mirror?”

“Aw, come on, that’s not very nice,” he grumbles. “And here my hopes were getting up that maybe you just missed me and were yearning for my presence.”

“Who are you gonna ask out, anyway?”

“Oh, no one. Well, no one that was going to say yes.”

You snort. “Not with lines like you were delivering, no.”

“Hey, screw you, my lines are golden.”

“So, since you’re not going to ask your mystery beau to go with you, why don’t you just take me instead!”

Dave chokes.

Okay, not the reaction you were going for.

“Come on,” you try, wheedling, “you have the tickets, we’re best friends, it’d be a waste of money if you didn’t go, and it’s not like anyone else -”

“Yes, you can come. Jeez, John, quit begging, it’s embarrassing.”

“No, what’s embarrassing is you practicing asking someone out in the mirror.”

Dave laughs, nervousness audibly fading into genuine affection. Something unexpectedly grazes against your face, and you reflexively jerk back. “Hey, simmer down, it’s just me,” Dave murmurs. “You have an eyelash.”

But the way his touch lingers belies his words, and your heart staggers into an unsteady rhythm as he withdraws his hand.

“Alright, so, what kind of concert are we even going to? I probably should have asked that first. It isn’t going to be one of your weird, avant-garde things where someone bangs on a tub of lard for half an hour, is it? What should I wear?” you joke shakily. Fuck, you wish you could at least know how badly your nerves are showing through. Your poker face -admittedly not the best even before your crash- has probably suffered so much since the accident.

“I’ll pick something out.”

“You have shitty fashion sense.”

Dave huffs out a quiet laugh. “You let me dress you every morning. Why should this be any different?”

Well, he doesn’t have to put it like that. You frown petulantly, but concede the point with a wave of your hand. “Alright, alright, whatever. Is it going to be fancy?”

“...Sort of. You’ll see.” And with that, Dave pats you on the shoulder, startling you again, and moves out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, listening as he scurries down the hallway muttering under his breath the whole way. Movements careful, you reach out and grip the edge of the countertop. Exhaling slowly as you close your eyes, you take careful stock in the way the edge digs into your palm, let the slight pain of it focus you.

You’re not stupid. you know exactly what you just agreed to and it settles the hard knot of uncomfortable emotion lodged in your chest into something much smoother.

Now you just have to figure out why you acted the way you did. You would understand if you _liked_ him, but you… don’t…

Oh.

_Oh._

Huh.

That explains a lot, actually.

Lifting one hand to your cheek, you let out a nervous titter. Oh god, your face is so warm. It must be embarrassingly red, you’d bet your life on it.

You have a date with Dave.

You really, really like Dave.

This… isn’t how you expected today to go, if you’re being honest. But you suppose you really just have to roll with it. Time to start asking for advice for your first date. And besides the girls, there’s really only one other person you can talk to right now...

With a sigh, you push yourself up and leave the bathroom, heading down the hallway to the living room. You poke your head through the doorframe. “Hey, Bro, is Dave in here?”

“Nah, my man, he just ran upstairs. You just missed him.”

“I didn’t really miss him. I’m sort of the reason he’s running,” you say as you enter the living room. “I think, anyway.” You’re quiet for a moment as you run your hands over the couch, thinking to yourself. “So, Bro, I might like Dave. Like, like like him, you know.”

There isn’t even a pause before he’s firing back, “Aw, is this baby’s first sexuality crisis?”

You snort. “Fuck no it’s not. It’s just the first time I’ve realized that I really want to kiss your idiot brother on the mouth to stop him from rambling so much.”

“I think the same thing, only with punching instead of kissing.” Bro laughs at himself, amused, and you have to grin.

“I would hope so.”

“But no seriously,” and there’s a soft sigh of fabric as Bro shifts. “Dave swears that you’re not into guys. Like, right hand on Cal and everything. So you are now and he just doesn’t know about it?”

You shake your head and feel your way towards him, perching on the couch leg once you find it. “Bro, the last time Dave and I actually talked about my sexuality, I was thirteen. I didn’t want to be involved with _anyone_. The only person I really wanted to kiss was Liv Tyler, and I _still want_ to kiss her.”

“She is a beautiful woman,” Bro commiserates. “And god _damn_ but that’s a nice piece of ass.”

You tilt your head towards him, frowning. “Liv Tyler?”

“No, this guy on TV right now.”

“Bro, please tell me you haven’t been watching porn while talking to me again. What have I told you about that?”

“To do it with the sound off so I don’t offend your virgin ears.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Alright, so if you’re not watching porn, then who are you ogling?”

Bro snorts. “Ogling. There’s this new show on the Discovery Channel. Some rugged guy named Jake is going around the world, making an attractive jackass out of himself while he pretends he’s charming. He does, however, have dimples when he smiles, and he looks good with scruff.” He inhales, the noise deliberately audible. “I kind of want to fuck that.”

You blink, squint. “That’s nice, Bro, can we get back on topic, now? The topic being, why would Dave even care about my sexuality anyway?”

There’s a warm pat on your arm, skin and leather, and you frown down at the contact petulantly. “I’m sure you’ll think of it here in a second. If you don’t, I can give you a hint: Why would Dave, who normally doesn’t give a shit about people, care about what someone else is into?”

Heat floods your face as you turn over possibilities, and you keep coming back to one over and over again. Dave could like you back; Dave could just be trying to keep an open mind about his friends; Dave could maybe be setting you up with one of his friends; Dave could like you; Dave could _like you_ , Dave could want this date as much as you do. You quietly sit down on the couch next to Bro. He only pats you consolingly on the arm and turns up the T.V. You suppose it’s some sort of comfort as you try to calm down the frantic, flattered beating of your heart.

* * *

 

“So, you’re going on a date.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh and nudge Terezi’s leg with your foot. “Why am I not surprised to find out you know about that already?”

She cackles, kicking you back none-too-gently. “Because you might actually have a clue every once in a while! Also, because when Dave needs to turn to someone for advice, I’m his main girl.”

“That’s not true. Rose and Jade are his main girls,” you protest. “And what’s he going to you for advice for anyway?”

“Fine, main girl who doesn’t live a few time-zones away then, if you’re going to be picky. And he was asking about your date, duh. Though he wouldn’t tell me what it is, or even that it was a date. He kept using the words “as friends” a lot.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Dave said we were going to some kind of concert. Other than that, he’s been pretty quiet, actually. I’d be worried, but come on, it’s Dave. What’s the worst that could happen.”

“Honestly,” Sollux pipes up, “There’s always the chance of sudden axe murdering. And he does come from Texas.”

“That was chainsaws,” Terezi corrects, though she’s laughing.

“Okay, but this is also Dave we’re talking about. So, really, it’s just going to be us going to a concert. Nothing more.” You spread your hands wide, unsurprised when someone -Terezi probably, judging on the coolness of her skin- grabs them.

“Nothing more? Oh come on, Johnny boy, surely you can be hoping for a little bit of action. We’re all friends here. You can be honest.”

Your teacher’s voice stops you from answering, as she curtly says, “You’re also all in class. Pay attention now.”

“Sorry, miss,” the three of you chime. You hide your smile by tilting your head down, because you’re happy. Your chest feels too full with emotions, warm and frightening with its expanse. Your friends are bothering you about your date, and you’re laughing and getting into trouble with them, and you’re _happy_.

* * *

 

You and Dave proceed to do an awkward dance around each other on Friday, neither of you certain how to bring up the fact that you’re _going on a date_ tomorrow until Bro sighs and slaps you both upside the head and sits you down to listen to Ghostbusters.

You’re both singing along to the theme song by the time you relax, leaning into Dave’s side easily.

(Dave puts his arm around you, and your heart beats faster in your chest.)

* * *

 

“Alright, now, lift your chin,” Dave instructs, and you do as you’re told, feeling him slowly button up the shirt, clearly unfamiliar with how buttons work from his angle. The room is quiet aside from Dave’s soft directions, a solemness normally not present at this time on a Saturday, but you breathe with it, feeling Dave’s fingers brush the underside of your jaw. “Sweet. You’re all done.”

You smooth your hands down the front of your shirt. “What, I get a button-up shirt and actual slacks? What kind of concert are you taking me to, anyway?”

“A fancy-schmancy one, duh. One on par with James Bond missions.” You snort and adjust your sleeves, pausing when Dave adds, “Careful of the cufflinks, they explode.”

“Dave, I’m not even wearing any cufflinks.”

“Ooh you got me. Ready to go?” Dave asks, and you feel a nudge along your arm as he reaches down to hook your hand into the crook of his elbow. He leads you down the stairs (which you now handle with ease, thank you very much), yelling over his shoulder, “Hey, Bro! We’re out! Don’t wait up!”

Bro shouts back, “If you make out on the porch for longer than five minutes, I’ll release the smuppets!”

Your laughter _almost_ covers up Dave’s overexaggerated retching noises as you are led out to the car.

The ride to… wherever it is you’re going is calm as Dave turns up music on the radio and you twine your fingers into the fabric of your pants, more secure once you’re anchored there. It feels like no time at all passes, with his voice winding around you and your grip loose on the handle of the door. Before you know it, you’re laughing at Dave freestyling some truly horrendous rapping and he’s opening the door for you, and your hand is back on his arm as he leads you through the parking lot and up a slight incline.

“Watch your step, the door’s a bit uneven,” Dave says, but his voice is almost lost in the sudden, vast reverberations now surrounding you. You hesitate for a second, but follow his urging into the -what must be massive- room, full of noise and people and voices, and for a moment you are completely overwhelmed.

But Dave leads you confidently into the crowd, up a few stairs and into another room that is quieter somehow. You hold yourself carefully still when he drops your arm, relaxing only when you hear his voice again. “Alright, careful, there are seats here. Follow me.”

“An orchestra concert?” you ask quietly, your fingers tight along plastic and metal.

“Sorry,” Dave says, his voice uncertain and uncomfortable. “If you don’t like it, we can leave, but I thought…” You reach out until you feel the fabric of his jacket under your hand and you tug on it, smiling.

“Stop that. I do like it, okay?” You stop to take a shaking breath. “Music.... I don’t need to see to enjoy it. Alright? Now, do I have to hold your hand for the rest of this, or are you convinced that I’m having a good time yet?”

Dave doesn’t answer for a second, and when he does, his voice is soft. “You can hold my hand if we’re not doing this as just friends.”

Well shit.

You can feel your hands shaking as you fight a quiet smile down, as you reach out to thread your fingers through his. The contact is thrilling, and you swear you can feel Dave’s heart racing in your fingertips.

You sit down and focus on the murmured snatches of conversation you can pick up, the huge reverberations of the hall making the space around you seem infinite. It’s almost as though the only thing you can accurately place is Dave, where your fingers are twined through his. You feel adrift but anchored. A ship on its mooring, and it makes you feel somehow safe.

Music swells around you, the surrusus of voices quiets. You tighten your fingers on Dave’s arm.

There is an absolutely breathtaking moment of silence.

When the music begins, the world drops away, and you drop with it. It is perfect. It is dancing and light and wide expanses of terrain, sweeping and endless. It is the clouds moving over the sky and stars winking in the night and it is the faces of the people you once knew and it hurts only because you cannot find air enough to breathe.

It feels like you’re flying.

Something tugs at your hand, a gentle pressure; you tilt your head towards Dave, indicating that you’re listening. “You alright?” he asks in a hushed voice.

Without saying anything, you nod. You are more than okay. This is amazing, but you don’t want to stop long enough to say anything. You close your eyes, squeeze Dave’s hand, and let yourself float.

* * *

 

The drive back to your house is quiet, and you spend it humming quietly under your breath, trying to keep the music within you going as long as you can. Dave lends you his arm as you make your way up to your room before he stops in front of your bedroom door.

“So, uh,” he coughs. “Did you… have a good time tonight?”

You grin, roll your eyes. “Are we seriously doing the “post-date awkward small talk in front of the door” thing?” you ask, fingers making the quote motion in the air. “I sorta thought we were past that, you know, with us being best friends and all.”

Dave snorts, and you feel his loose hold on your hand change as he shifts position. “Look, some things have to be done right, including first date awkwardness. No matter how well we know each other.”

“Are we going to do all the stereotypical date number things?” Your mouth twists to the side in a sardonic grin as you poke fun at Dave, squeezing his fingers at random intervals, and your heartbeat is racing. You don’t want to stop talking to him. He lives in the same house as you, and you suddenly think that you absolutely don’t want him outside of arm’s reach.

A quiet sigh stirs the bangs on your forehead. “I think,” Dave says, his voice sounding much softer and much closer, “that there are a few things we can skip the requirements to, yeah?”

And then there’s a pressure on your mouth and-

Oh.

He’s.

Dave is kissing you.

The contact itself is more startling, somehow, than the fact that Dave’s doing it, and you can’t stop your instinctive flinch quick enough.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, god, fuck, I didn’t-,” he babbles, and your pulse kickstarts slightly too quick. You grab him, making sure he doesn’t move too far away.

“Dave, I-”

“I haven’t been reading this wrong, have I?” he blurts out. “I mean, I understand if you just want to be friends, but I really like you and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this ever since I noticed how I felt around you and we held hands after I asked you to and-”

“Dave.”

“-everyone I’ve talked to has said that I’m not reading this wrong, but it’s me, I still could be, or those assholes could be lying, even odds. But I definitely don’t want to be wrong about this. That would be lame. Lame like those stupid movies you know by heart, and yes, I’m sorry, but Ghostbusters totally counts as a bad movie in this case-”

“Dave.”

“-especially since your love of it is completely genuine, which is adorable and terrifying in equal amounts, do you even know how terribly campy that movie i-”

“Dave, I can’t see where your mouth is, so I don’t know where to kiss you to make you shut up already,” you say, frustrated.

There’s a startled silence.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, “oh,”” you mutter.

A chuckle, and you scowl up in his general direction. “Are you sure? I mean, you could try and we could see how awful your aim …. is…,” he trails off as you slide your hand around the back of his neck, as you lean up into the scant distance between the two of you until you can feel his breath coming fast against your skin. Carefully, you shift that final bit of space to press your lips against what you think and hope are his. Dave is still for a moment. Then he lets out a quiet noise and turns his head just a little (damn it).

Dave kisses you sweetly, gently, fluttering touches of contact that make your heart pound wildly in your throat. You feel too warm and lightheaded.

Your noses bump together as you kiss Dave again and again, insistently pulling him close and tight against you. You can feel him breathe, his stomach and chest pressing against you in fluttering teases of contact, and all you really want is to have him closer.

This is… amazing. This is electric and nerve-wracking and everything movies has built it up to be.

Dave pulls away.

You chase after him, your disappointment a quiet whine in the back of your throat when he stops you with a gentle hand. “We should,” and his voice is hoarse, his breathing uneven, and Dave self-consciously clears his throat before continuing. “We should probably go to bed. Shower, then. Bed. Clearly, duh, what else would it even be, we don’t want to wake up smelling like ass and teenaged-”

“Dave.”

“-sweat a la the only Nirvana song anyone knows.” Trailing off to a stop, Dave takes a deep breath. “Yeah?”

Chuckling, you shake your head. “Yeah, alright. If it bothers you that much, you go take a shower and then we’ll go to sleep. I’ll get mine in the morning. But you’re sleeping up here, got it?”

“Got it like a … yeah, okay I got nothing there. That’s just sad. This is what you’ve brought me to, John. You’ve left me without my winding metaphors and we all know I’m nothing without them.” You laugh as Dave extrapolates wildly, wandering out of your room and down the hallway, his voice fading off as he goes.

You touch your mouth, marveling at all the new ways your lips tingle and how warm they feel.

You can’t seem to stop smiling.

Remembered warmth skitters and plays along your skin, and you are almost wobbly and coltish as you make your way easily across the meager distance to your bed. You change into pajamas while Dave is busy elsewhere, burrowing under the blankets.

(You make sure to leave plenty of room for Dave, though.)

The mattress shifts as Dave sits down on it, then stretches out. His knees knock into yours, and you can’t help but to smile into the darkness. You feel his breath on your face a moment later, the soft, sweet press of his lips against your own welcome.

“So, we’re a thing now, right?” Dave asks, hushed and breathless.

“Yeah, we are,” you whisper back, heart racing in the best way. “Night, Dave.”

He shifts around. You hear him flip a blanket over himself before he urges you to roll over, your back facing him. Quietly, he presses himself against you, his breath rustling the short hairs at the nape of your neck. “Night, John.”

Eventually you settle down enough for sleep. One of Dave’s arms is under your head, the other a solid brand of warmth along your sternum as he holds you close to him. His knees are tucked up behind yours. Even his feet are tangled with yours. Closing your eyes, you relax back, pulling his hand up under your chin, and you realize as you fall asleep that you feel…

Safe.

* * *

 

Time passes. You don’t want to say that you’ve lost hope in regaining your sight because that’s not quite right. It’s more like… you’ve lost your sense of urgency about it. Nothing’s happening with your head, so you might as well get used to it, right?

(Though it still hurts, and you still ache to think that there are things you’ll never see.)

Dr. Serket reassures you that this is completely normal, and even though part of you wants to ask to stop the sessions, since nothing is working, it’s almost freeing to have someone you can just vent to.

“So, how does this even work, anyway?” you burst out one day. “What, am I supposed to just keep sitting here and talk and expect my eyes to just… work again? Is that all there is to it?”

Dr. Serket is quiet for a moment before she answers. “I presume you’re talking about conversion disorder? Every case is different, John, and it’s a very inexact disorder. Under most circumstances, once you are able to process the trauma that caused your synapses to misfire, there is a possibility that you might be able to see again.”

You scowl. “Simple as that?”

“I’m sure you can tell by now that it isn’t that simple at all, John. Talking through the accident until you become comfortable with it may not be the best solution, but it is the only one we really have right now.”

There’s a part of you that desperately wants to argue. You want to cross your arms and huff and pout and whine until you get what you want, but as soon as you recognize the urges, they dissipate. Instead, you just sigh and nod and grit your teeth and bear it.

* * *

 

The sessions continue. Dr. Serket is remarkably down to earth, once she stops talking and gets around to actually focusing on the _therapy_ rather than the theory of it all, and you like the way she talks about your blindness. Like it’s something that can possibly be conquered, but isn’t a detrimental part of you.

You are, however, no closer to your sight coming back.

Dr. Serket pats your hand consolingly, telling you that all these things take time. But you’re able to think about the accident again. You can admit to the fact that your father isn’t with you anymore, but Bro and Dave are. It helps. To remember that they love you. It makes realizing that you survived an easier truth to swallow.

(When you say that to Dave, he kisses you, your eyelids, holds you tightly against his wiry frame, and that makes the last of your tension drop away. You don’t cry. You’re beyond that, but the guilt and relief are still difficult to breathe through.)

(So of course, when you say it to Terezi and Sollux, they scoff quietly before Terezi tugs you into a hug. You spend the rest of the class period holding some part of them - Sollux’s arm, Terezi’s hand - and the smile on your face hurts, as does the aching in your chest, but you turn your attention to your friend’s laughing and you do not think about it.)

Things are getting better.

Slowly but surely.

This is your life. And you are getting used to it.

So you’re not exactly sure what you’re expecting when you open your eyes one day and you can see the blurred sprawl of sunlight against your ceiling, but panic definitely isn’t it. You squeeze your eyes shut, take a deep breath. For the first time, the darkness behind your eyelids is comforting.  You breathe in. Out. Okay. So. Sight. Definitely a thing that is happening. You should be happy. You should look around for the first time in almost a year now. Instead, you don’t want to open your eyes.

Dave.

You have to see Dave. And you have to see him first.

With ease of long practice (haha, will you ever describe anything as ‘blindly’ again? Probably not. That lost its meaning a year ago, started being funny a few months later, with you, Terezi, and Sollux cackling madly over your shared secret world), you find your way off the bed with your eyes still tightly shut, feet searching out the familiar safe path across the room. Alright. First to your desk. You find the blocky shape of your glasses and slide them on before heading to the door. It’s easy. Ten steps, hand out for the doorknob, and open.

“Dave?” you call, almost uncertain, one hand curled around the doorframe. There’s the slightest shuffle of socks on carpet as Dave walks upstairs towards you. You bite your lip, heart pounding hard and high in your throat, anticipation making you so fucking dizzy.

“Yeah, what is it, dude?”

“C-Can you come here? I … I need you.”

There’s a brief halt in the footsteps and you can practically hear the confusion and sudden spike of worry from Dave. You don’t say that you’re quietly freaking out, or that the idea of seeing him is exhilarating and terrifying, or that seeing him, making him the first thing you look at again, will probably make you cry. You adjust the now-unfamiliar glasses resting on your nose. You’d feel bad about worrying him, but panicked laughter is starting to bubble up your throat.

You can _see_.

(It _worked_.)

You hear Dave come to a stop in front of you, and his hands are there on your shoulders.  You lean into the contact, drinking in his presence the only way you’re used to anymore. You. Should open your eyes. You don’t know what to do. God, you’ve waited for this for so long and now you’re absolutely paralyzed.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

Here’s what you know about Dave:

He’s a great singer.

He washes his clothes almost neurotically, and thus he constantly smells like detergent and aftershave and whatever scent Dave’s skin naturally puts off.

He still wears those shades you gave him years ago.

His hands are ridiculously warm, and constantly there if you (when you) need them.

He moved from Texas for you.

He made his _brother_ move from Texas for you.

His voice is the only thing that can get you back to sleep after some nightmares you have.

He holds your hands when you sleep in his bed. Or when he sleeps in yours.

He’s very good at kissing.

Here’s what you don’t know about Dave:

What he looks like, because somehow, in all this time you’ve known each other, the idea of sending each other pictures never crossed your minds.

You take a few steadying breaths, Dave’s hands warm on your shoulders, his worried voice coming out clear even through the reckless pounding of your heart. _It’s just his face,_ you think desperately. You’ve waited years for this already.

“John?” you hear Dave ask and shit, his voice is shaking. You’re probably worrying him with how tightly squeezed shut your eyes are. And by how you haven’t said a damn word yet.

You open your eyes.

The world takes a while to focus (you’re a bit out of practice, and your prescription probably isn’t good anymore), but there are sunglasses set in a pale face, blond hair feathering across his forehead, there’s _Dave_. Your hands are shaking as you touch his face, starting at the familiar warmth of him.

“…John?”

You can finally put a face to his name and voice, and he’s _perfect_. Wetness slides down your cheeks; you don’t bother to brush off your tears because fuck it, this is worth it. Carefully, because you’re not used to seeing anymore, distances have gotten a little harder to judge, you brush your thumb across the bridge of his nose, under his glasses, and yes, this is the face you’ve come to know and love. Dave seems entirely confused and is just about to say something when you hiccup, a little wet laugh.

“You have freckles,” you whisper, overwhelmed.

He freezes.

You can see how wide his eyes are behind his shades, and it makes you smile. Carefully, you take his sunglasses off, searching his startlingly carmine eyes with your own. “You have freckles everywhere, Dave. Why didn’t you tell me I could play Connect the Dots with your face?”

Dave quirks an eyebrow (but you hear the offended snort he makes), and he awkwardly shrugs, and oh, you can see his pulse pounding in his throat, stuttering and fast like a bird’s. God, everything seems to be so sharp and so out-of-focus all at once. You’re making yourself slightly dizzy. “Oh yeah, man, that’s fucking awesome, great, let’s use Dave’s face as a game board, everyone come and pla-“

“You’re beautiful.”

He shuts up almost instantly. You didn’t know that his eyes could get that round, and you convulse with a dry sob, your hand shaking against his face, your chest tight. “God, you’re perfect,” you whisper. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Immediately, Dave replies, “It never really came up,” before he searches your face, and it’s almost comforting that he seems just as lost as you are. “Can you really…?”

You nod, stroking his hair, his cheek, his neck with trembling fingertips.

“Hey, chickadees, what’s with the town meeting on the stairs?”

Dave half-turns, not moving too far away from you, and you examine the tall, broad man behind him. You notice the gray lightly peppering his blond hair; his loose, easy stance; the dark eyes behind his pointed ( _completely ridiculous_ ) shades (seriously, how do these two even think they’re remotely cool. It’s a mystery to you.) You smile again, though the expression is wobbly and it feels as though it is about to slide right off your face. “Hi, Bro. Nice to see you.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. The train of thoughts he has is plainly evident on his face before he snorts, grins widely.

“Well damn, kid, good for you.”

And there is laughing and Dave sweeps you into a tight hug. Bro claps you on the shoulder, shakes you, and you pretend you can’t see the relief etched into his features. There is talk about going to dinner or lunch or _somewhere_ in celebration and how it’s going to be your pick, but for now? For now, you close your eyes, bury your face in the crook of Dave’s neck and breathe him in.

You think to yourself that you are very glad you are alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, guys! The final chapter! I hope you enjoyed it! Now I can concentrate my efforts on (Never) What You Wanted, because that one's in for quite the ride. I love you all, thank you for reading, and I hope you all have a good day.


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